Hi] 


JJ&iltp  &,  fatten 


TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN.  Profusely  illustrated.  Large 
crown  8vo,  $3.00,  net;  postage  extra. 

GREECE  AND  THE  >EGEAN  ISLANDS.  Pro- 
fusely illustrated.  Large  crown  8vo,  $3.00,  net. 
Postage  18  cents. 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 


BURGOS   CATHEDRAL  (page  353) 


TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 


PHILIP 


TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 


BY 


PHILIP  SANFORD   MARDEN 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

MCiVfX 


vi  PREFACE 

It  will  be  seen,  even  at  a  cursory  glance,  that  the 
travels  described  here  were  not  often  far  from  the 
beaten  track  —  if  any  track  in  Spain  may  yet  be 
called  beaten.  Nevertheless  it  will  be  found,  I 
think,  that  there  are  chapters  here  and  there  dealing 
with  places  the  western  world  does  not  as  yet  know 
well,  —  not  nearly  as  well  as  it  should  and  doubt- 
less will  know  them  in  the  years  that  are  to  come. 

I  have  illustrated  it  with  pictures  of  my  own 
making,  save  only  in  two  notable  instances.  The 
extraordinarily  good  photographs  of  the  detail  of 
the  Alhambra  interior  have  been  kindly  furnished 
me  by  Mr.  Lyneham  Crocker  of  Boston. 

In  my  own  case  I  think  I  should  have  been  grate- 
ful for  some  such  book  as  this,  could  I  have  found 
one  before  setting  out  for  Spain.  And  it  is  the  fact 
that  I  was  unable  to  find  one  of  this  general  scope 
that  leads  me  to  venture  the  production  of  such  a 
one  myself,  hoping  that  it  may  be  found  both  en- 
tertaining and  helpful  in  various  practical  ways. 
I  would  not  have  it  judged  as  a  guidebook,  however, 
for  that  would  be  the  very  last  of  its  claims ;  neither 
would  I  have  it  harshly  dissected  as  a  scientific 
treatise  on  Spain  and  the  Spaniards,  —  for  certainly 
it  is  not  that.  Rather  is  it,  as  I  have  said,  the  short 
and  simple  annals  of  a  journey  in  Spain,  told  with 
what  I  hope  is  a  proper  reverence  and  appreciation 
for  all  that  is  grand  and  beautiful  and  impressive, 
but  still  with  a  readiness  always  to  see  the  lighter 
side. 


PREFACE  vii 

What  has  been  said  should  serve  to  explain  the 
inclusion  of  the  introductory  chapter  on  Spanish 
travel.  Those  to  whom  such  a  chapter  is  super- 
fluous may  with  profit  ignore  it,  of  course.  But  to 
those  who  contemplate  visiting  Spain  for  the  first 
time  I  hope  it  may  prove  of  direct  and  appreciable 
benefit.  My  only  standard  has  been  my  own  needs, 
as  I  felt  them  when  I  first  turned  my  steps  toward 
Spanish  soil. 

PHILIP  SANFORD  MARDEN. 

LOWELL,  MASS.,  September  18,  1909. 


CONTENTS 

I.  INTRODUCTORY:  SPANISH  TRAVEL.       ...      3 

II.  TANGIER 27 

Mil.  RONDA 52 

IV.  GRANADA 72 

V.  THE  ALHAMBRA 94 

>  VI.  SEVILLE I21 

VII.   CORDOVA '51 

VIII.   IN  OLD  MADRID *76 

IX.  TOLEDO 2I° 

X.  THE  ESCORIAL 239 

XI.  SEGOVIA 26° 

XII.  AVILA 286 

7   XIII.   SALAMANCA 3!5 

XIV.  BURGOS  AND  THE  Cm 342 

XV.  SARAGOSSA S68 

XVI.  TARRAGONA  AND  POBLET 382 

*  XVII.  A  GLIMPSE  OF  BARCELONA 399 

XVIII.     MONSERRAT 4*° 

INDEX  43* 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Burgos  Cathedral  (page  353)     .....    Frontispiece 

Map i 

In  a  Tangier  Byway 32 

The  Grand  Soko,  Tangier 36 

Ronda 58 

In  Ronda 60 

The  "  New  "  Bridge,  Ronda 64 

Cathedral  at  Ronda 68 

The  Alhambra,  from  the  Albaicin 82 

Window  in  the  Alhambra 100 

Detail  of  the  Alhambra 106 

In  the  Mezquita  Gardens,  Alhambra     .         .        .        .  no 

The  Generalife  Gardens 114 

Gate  of  Cathedral  Close,  Seville 126 

Court  of  Oranges,  Cordova 158 

Women  at  Fountain,  Cordova       .         .         .         .        .        .162 

Roman  Bridge  at  Cordova 166 

Menippus 186 

/Esop 190 

In  the  Streets  of  Toledo        .......      210 

Toledo,  Alcantara  Bridge          .        .        .        .        .        .        .214 

Puerta  del  Sol,  Toledo 224 

Cloisters  of  San  Juan  de  los  Reyes,  Toledo     ....  234 
Palace  of  El  Escorial 242 


xii  ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  Typical  Doorway,  Segovia  262 

Aqueduct  (Devil's  Bridge),  Segovia 266 

Segovia  Cathedral  from  the  South        .  ....  276 

"  The  Prow  of  the  Segovian  Ship  " 280 

Well-walled  Avila 302 

Northern  Wall  and  Towers,  Avila         .        .        .        .        .      306 

A  Stone  Pig  of  Avila 312 

Casa  de  Conchas,  Salamanca 320 

The  Great  Bridge  at  Salamanca 334 

"  A  Peasant  of  Leon  " 346 

Madonna  del  Pilar,  Saragossa 374 

The  Ruined  Cloisters  of  Poblet 390 

"  Guardians  of  the  Grail,"  Monserrat 410 

"  Titanic  fingers  raised  as  if  in  blessing "      .        .        .        .412 

The  Summits  of  Monserrat 416 

"  The  road  now  turned  toward  the  mountain  "...      420 
Caball  Bernat,  Monserrat 424 


TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 


TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

CHAPTER  I 

INTRODUCTORY:  SPANISH  TRAVEL 

HISTORY  and  tradition  have  conspired  to  hinder 
Spanish  travel.  The  ordinary  assumption 
seems  to  be  that  the  Spaniard  is  a  sort  of  bewhisk- 
ered  pirate,  partial  to  bloodshed,  haughty  in  de- 
meanor, intolerant  of  innovation,  anxious  only  for 
doubloons  and  pieces  of  eight,  more  at  home  on  the 
quarter-deck  of  a  galleon  than  anywhere  else,  and 
burning  with  a  consuming  passion  to  convert  the 
world  to  the  Roman  Catholic  religion  —  by  rack 
and  wheel  if  need  be.  The  gruesome  tales  of  the 
Spanish  Main  and  the  Inquisition  die  extremely 
hard,  and  as  a  result  many  seem  to  hesitate  over 
embarking  on  a  journey  through  the  land  of  the 
Most  Catholic  Kings;  or,  having  become  fixed  in 
the  determination  to  voyage  thither,  set  out  with 
inward  fear  and  trembling  concerning  what  they 
shall  find.  Such,  at  any  rate,  was  our  own  experi- 
ence and  such  our  apprehensions,  mitigated  only 
by  the  knowledge  that  many  had  visited  Spain  and 
had  returned,  —  not  unscathed  merely,  but  actu- 
ally professing  to  have  found  both  pleasure  and 


/:I4£0':!L TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

profit  in  their  contact  with  this  austere  and  intol- 
erant race. 

The  unpleasant  conflict  between  Spain  and  the 
United  States  which  culminated  in  1898  has  un- 
questionably hindered  Americans  more  than  others 
from  visiting  the  peninsula,  fearful  lest  the  bitter 
memories  of  unsuccessful  war  should  crop  out  to 
mar  the  pleasures  of  the  journey  by  subjecting  the 
visitor  himself  to  occasional  contumely  at  the  hands 
of  the  conquered.  It  deserves  to  be  said,  then,  that 
nothing  could  be  farther  from  the  truth  than  any 
such  assumption  concerning  the  Spanish  people  as 
a  whole,  even  as  representing  their  personal  feel- 
ings toward  those  with  whom  their  government 
was  so  recently  at  war.  The  statement  that  one  is 
an  "American"  is  almost  invariably  taken  by  the 
native  as  meaning  South  American;  and  when  one 
goes  farther  and  specifies  the  United  States  as  his 
~~  native  land,  it  seems  to  cause  no  resentment.  If 
our  own  experiences  were  a  fair  criterion,  and  that 
they  were  so  we  judge  from  the  common  testimony 
of  other  similarly  circumstanced  visitors,  it  would 
be  hard  to  find  a  more  courteous  or  a  more  con- 
siderate people.  Making  due  allowance  for  the  slight 
rudenesses  of  certain  individuals  here  and  there, 
and  for  differences  of  national  opinion  as  to  what 
is  and  what  is  not  acceptable  conduct,  —  differ- 
ences which  one  always  meets  with  in  foreign  travel, 
and  surely  as  often  in  Paris  as  in  Madrid,  —  it 
remains  true  that  Spain  is  quite  as  easy  and  quite 


INTRODUCTORY:  SPANISH  TRAVEL    5 

as  safe  a  country  to  travel  in  as  any  other.  The 
only  marked  incivility  that  we  ourselves  met  with 
in  Spain  was  shown  by  an  American  woman! 

To  be  sure,  it  is  apparently  a  common  notion 
among  Spanish  cavaliers  that  to  stare  at  an  at- 
tractive woman  is  a  species  of  compliment,  and 
the  practice  is  frequently  resented  by  those  who  do 
not  regard  it  in  the  same  light.  In  some  cities,  and 
more  especially  in  Madrid,  impertinent  young  men 
occasionally  do  annoy  unescorted  women  in  very 
disagreeable  ways,  although  doubtless  with  no  more 
than  a  mildly  mischievous  intent.  As  for  the  dan- 
gers of  robbery  and  theft,  these  are  probably  no 
greater  in  Spain  than  in  any  other  Mediterranean 
country,  despite  the  prevalence  of  signs  everywhere 
warning  the  traveler  to  "beware  of  pickpockets.'1 
In  short,  one  who  guards  his  possessions  with  or- 
dinary care,  and  who  pursues  the  even  tenor  of  his 
way  in  a  self-respecting  manner,  runs  no  more  risk 
of  loss  or  of  molestation  than  he  would  run  in  Rome, 
and  would  in  most  cases  be  in  infinitely  less  dan- 
ger of  either  than  he  would  be  in  Naples. 

Begging,  to  be  sure,  is  extremely  common,  and 
the  only  wise  course  is  to  ignore  it  as  far  as  possi- 
ble. The  children  are  by  far  the  worst  offenders, 
often  urged  on  shamelessly  by  their  mothers  to 
demand  money  of  passers-by  when  possibly  they 
would  omit  to  do  it  of  their  own  volition.  But  in 
the  main  no  such  urgence  is  necessary,  as  every 
child  regards  the  appearance  of  a  stranger  as  the 


6  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

signal  for  a  plea  for  cinco  centimos,  or  a  perrita,  or 
a  limosnita,  —  which  are  the  various  common 
forms  of  demanding  the  smallest  of  the  Spanish 
coins.  According  to  all  traditions,  the  traveler  in 
refusing  to  present  alms  should  always  adopt  the 
piously  courteous  form,  "Pardon  us  for  God's 
sake,  brother."  But  I  suspect  that  this  stately 
phrase  is  swiftly  dropping  into  disuse  with  the 
steady  increase  of  visitation  by  less  polite  foreign- 
ers. Whether  this  growing  contact  with  the  world 
outside  will  likewise,  in  its  turn,  impair  the  natives' 
own  inborn  courtesy  and  habit  of  elaborate  cir- 
cumlocution remains  to  be  seen.  If  it  does  so,  it  will 
be  a  pity,  for  the  high-sounding  language  of  even 
the  people  of  lowly  station  has  its  picturesqueness. 
That  a  good  deal  of  it  has  already  passed  away, 
however,  is  highly  probable.  Too  many  visitors 
now  come  to  Spain  whose  acquaintance  with  the 
language  is  rudimentary.  The  vocabulary  of  the 
ordinary  traveler  is  restricted  to  the  great  essen- 
tials of  food,  drink,  and  lodging,  and  will  not  bear 
the  strain  of  high-flown  compliment  or  of  profound 
obeisance  that  gushes  so  freely  from  those  to  the 
manner  born.  It  requires  a  certain  degree  of  facility 
to  beseech  the  worshipful  porter  to  do  you  the  great 
favor  of  bearing  a  hand  with  your  portmanteau, 
and  few  of  us  possess  it. 

Nevertheless,  I  should  most  certainly  advise  the 
intending  voyager  in  Spain  to  make  some  attempt 
to  acquire  a  working  vocabulary  of  Spanish,  even 


INTRODUCTORY:  SPANISH  TRAVEL    7 

if  it  must  be  confined  to  a  few  useful  nouns  and 
a  very  few  common  adjectives,  numerals,  and  set 
phrases.  Spain  is  not  yet  as  full  of  linguists  as  the 
more  frequented  countries  are,  and  now  and  then,  if 
one  leaves  the  beaten  track,  or  finds  one's  self  in  a 
quandary  on  the  street,  a  little  learning  in  the  Cas- 
tilian  tongue  will  be  found  to  be  anything  but  a 
dangerous  thing.  It  is  of  vast  assistance,  also,  in 
understanding  the  guides  and  sacristans  who  inev- 
itably escort  the  wondering  traveler  through  dim 
cathedrals  and  the  mazes  of  the  ancient  palaces. 
It  will  also  be  found  helpful  if  one  knows  some- 
thing of  the  curious  pronunciation  of  certain  letters 
in  the  Spanish  alphabet  in  order  to  render  one's 
naming  of  streets  and  places  intelligible  to  the  Span- 
ish ear.  It  will  probably  surprise  many  to  discover 
that  it  is  emphatically  not  a  musical  language,  as 
commonly  spoken  to-day  even  by  natives  of  An- 
dalusia. It  retains  too  many  of  the  gutturals  be- 
queathed by  the  Moors  to  have  the  liquid  smooth- 
ness of  the  Italian.  The  crude  climate  of  the  greater 
part  of  Spain  has  not  improved  the  quality  of  the 
native  voice.  And  yet  those  who  admire  the  lan- 
guage would  have  us  believe  that  "God  created  the 
world  in  Spanish ;  Eve  was  beguiled  by  the  serpent 
in  Italian;  and  Adam  begged  pardon  in  French!" 
The  common  Spanish  coin  is  the  peseta,  —  a  sort 
of  meek  and  lowly  franc.  The  worth  of  it  varies 
appreciably  from  day  to  day,  very  much  as  the 
Greek  drachmas  do,  the  average  value  being  some- 


8  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

thing  like  eighteen  cents  of  our  money.  There  is 
the  usual  Mediterranean  necessity  to  be  constantly 
on  the  watch  for  false  coin  without  the  Italian 
safeguard  of  looking  at  the  date.  The  sound  of 
the  metal  is  the  one  criterion,  and  every  shop- 
keeper maintains  a  marble  block  on  which  to  test 
his  money.  In  the  more  considerate  shops  the  test- 
ing may  be  postponed  until  the  customer  is  on 
his  way  out,  but  he  will  hardly  fail  to  hear  the 
clinking  of  silver  as  he  departs.  The  more  common 
custom  is  to  bounce  the  several  pieces  brazenly 
under  the  purchaser's  very  nose  —  and  no  offense 
intended.  You  are  expected  to  do  the  same  with 
your  change. 

Common  as  the  pesetas  and  two-peseta  pieces 
are,  they  are  almost  equaled  in  volume  of  circu- 
lation by  the  nimble,  but  heavy,  duro,  —  a  five- 
peseta  coin  resembling  our  silver  dollar  in  size  and 
ponderosity.  The  absence  of  any  bank  bills  for  the 
lower  denominations  makes  this  unwieldy  coin  ex- 
tremely common ;  and  the  traveler  setting  out  pro- 
perly equipped  for  a  day's  sight-seeing  must  carry  on 
his  person  a  weight  almost  comparable  to  that  borne 
by  Charles  V  of  blessed  memory,  when  cantering 
calmly  into  battle.  For  not  only  will  his  pocketbook 
be  bulging  with  duros,  but  his  change-pockets  will 
be  loaded  down  with  great  store  of  centimes,  — 
copper  coins  of  the  size  of  pence  and  ha'pennies,  — 
which  latter  are  most  useful  for  paving  the  way 
with  good  intentions  on  the  part  of  a  hungry  popu- 


INTRODUCTORY:  SPANISH  TRAVEL    9 

lation.  Most  of  the  Spanish  gold  has  gone  long 
ago  to  join  the  national  myths.  The  country  that 
once  furnished  all  Europe  with  that  precious  metal 
no  longer  has  enough  to  bless  herself  with,  and 
must  be  content  with  a  sadly  debased  and  wildly 
fluctuating  silver  currency.  An  English  sovereign, 
which  commands  twenty-five  francs,  will  generally 
call  for  twenty-eight  pesetas  in  Spain. 

The  ever-watchful  guidebooks  warn  the  visitor 
against  entering  into  religious  or  political  discus- 
sions with  the  natives,  —  a  very  wise,  but  emi- 
nently superfluous  bit  of  advice  in  view  of  the  pau- 
city of  the  average  traveler's  linguistic  equipment. 
Very  few,  I  imagine,  are  capable  of  doing  much 
more  than  to  bargain  for  the  necessities  of  life,  or 
to  demand  agua  caliente  of  hotel  attendants,  and 
therefore  run  little  risk  of  being  drawn  into  voluble 
and  superheated  discussions  over  the  Carlists,  or 
the  need  of  a  republican  form  of  government.  Much 
more  reasonable  is  the  advice  to  preserve  a  respect- 
ful and  decorous  demeanor  in  the  churches  dur- 
ing mass,  —  needless  as  such  admonition  ought  to 
be.  The  zeal  of  Spain  for  the  Catholic  faith  is  still 
intense,  and  while  a  Castilian  may  not  be  more 
royalist  than  the  King,  he  is  frequently  rather  more 
Catholic  than  the  Pope.  It  does  not  please  him 
that  heretical  tourists,  guidebook  in  hand,  should 
wander  noisily  about  his  cathedrals,  drowning  the 
"blessed  mutter  of  the  Mass"  with  their  clatter  and 
babble.  And  yet,  if  Catholic  Spain  still  regards  the 


io  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

Protestant  foreigner  as  little  better  than  a  heathen, 
—  as  very  likely  she  does,  —  there  is  little  outward 
and  visible  indication  of  it  to-day. 

Aside  from  fears  based  on  a  mistaken  notion  of 
the  character  of  the  people,  there  appears  to  be 
a  popular  fallacy  that  traveling  in  Spain  is  not  a 
matter  lightly  to  be  undertaken,  that  it  is  beset 
with  peculiar  drawbacks  and  hardships,  and  that 
it  is  certain  to  entail  unusual  expense.  As  for  the 
latter  consideration,  that  varies,  as  always,  with 
the  temperament,  habits,  desires,  and  ideas  of  the 
individual,  and  depends  to  no  small  degree  also  on 
the  season.  It  is  probably  a  fair  statement  that  the 
costs  of  a  journey  in  Spain  are  likely  somewhat  to 
exceed  the  expenses  of  a  similar  journey  in  Italy, 
unless  one  is  possessed  of  an  abundance  of  time. 
Given  the  latter,  with  a  consequent  immunity 
from  rapid  changes  of  base  and  costly  railway 
journeys  at  too  frequent  intervals,  and  Spanish 
travel  will  be  found  far  from  expensive  for  those 
of  modest  tastes,  particularly  if  one  be  wise  in 
choosing  the  season  for  one's  visit.  As  for  the 
discomforts  and  hardships,  of  which  so  much  has 
been  made  by  earlier  writers,  these  are  beginning 
to  disappear  and  with  the  lapse  of  time  will 
doubtless  cease  altogether  to  be  worth  consider- 
ing. The  diligence  has  now  almost  entirely  disap- 
peared and  one  is  no  longer  forced  to  rely  upon  it 
save  for  journeys  quite  apart  from  any  track  that 
the  ordinary  visitor  is  likely  to  frequent.  Never- 


INTRODUCTORY:  SPANISH  TRAVEL    11 

theless,  in  part  because  of  the  native  hostility  to- 
ward all  radical  innovation  and  the  obstinate  no- 
tion that  traditional  Spanish  ways  are  of  necessity 
better  than  any  other  ways,  and  in  part  also  be- 
cause of  unfamiliarity  with  the  demands  of  visitors 
from  other  lands,  one  will  unquestionably  find,  here 
and  there,  a  good  deal  that  is  primitive  and  some 
things  that  are  decidedly  uncomfortable  when 
judged  by  the  more  exacting  modern  standards. 
It  is  always  well  to  bear  in  mind  Lord  Byron's 
celebrated  dictum,  —  not  yet  outlawed  in  Spain, 
whatever  may  be  the  truth  of  it  elsewhere, — 
"Comfort  must  not  be  expected  by  folk  that  go 
a-pleasuring." 

As  I  look  back  now  upon  our  experiences  in  Spain, 
however,  I  have  no  recollection  of  anything  in  the 
least  unpleasant  in  the  matter  of  our  accommo- 
dation. On  each  occasion  we  were  in  the  country 
before  the  season  for  the  heaviest  volume  of  travel, 
and  by  the  same  token  it  was  not  yet  balmy  weather, 
so  that  we  soon  learned  the  shortcomings  of  the 
Spanish  nation  in  the  heating  of  its  houses.  But 
though  nights  were  chill,  the  beds  were  invariably 
provided  with  heavy  blankets,  and  were  in  them- 
selves almost  always  soft  and  comfortable;  and 
with  the  aid  of  the  brasero,  —  of  which  more  here- 
after, —  the  indoor  intervals  of  the  waking  day  were 
made  very  tolerable.  Nor  are  our  recollections  of 
the  Spanish  food  any  less  agreeable,  although  our 
anticipations  had  conjured  up  a  sufficiency  of  hor- 


12  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

rors ;  and  I  may  say  with  perfect  truth,  after  a  some- 
what varied  experience  in  many  Mediterranean 
countries,  that  in  Spain  one  fares  quite  as  well  as 
in  any  other  land,  if  not  rather  better.  Garlic,  of 
course,  one  must  expect.  Chocolate,  nearly  always 
"  tinct  with  cinnamon"  and  often  made  heavy  and 
pasty  with  flour,  forms  the  staple  of  the  morning 
meal.  In  many  places  goat's  milk  is  the  only  milk 
to  be  had.  But  if  any  general  criticism  were  to  be 
made  of  the  Spanish  fare  which  we  encountered  in 
our  journeys,  it  would  not  be  that  there  was  any 
scarcity  of  palatable  food,  but  on  the  contrary  that 
there  was,  if  anything,  too  great  an  abundance. 

Whatever  is  true  at  other  seasons,  it  may  at  least 
be  stated  that  in  the  early  spring  the  ordinary  inns 
of  Spain  are  not  merely  comfortable,  and  generally 
reasonable  in  price,  but  also  admirably  clean.  It 
was  only  here  and  there,  in  the  somewhat  less  fre- 
quented towns,  that  we  came  upon  a  rather  un- 
comfortable primitiveness,  chiefly  manifested  in 
the  sanitary  arrangements  of  inland  hotels,  —  a 
respect  in  which  there  is  often  much  room  for  im- 
provement. But  in  the  cities  and  towns  more  com- 
monly touched  by  the  tide  of  travel,  the  Spaniard 
has  come  to  know  what  is  expected  by  the  foreigner, 
and  he  provides  as  well  as  any  sensible  traveler 
could  well  desire. 

We  had  been  warned,  as  everybody  else  has  been, 
of  the  unsatisfactory  character  of  the  Spanish  rail- 
ways, their  lack  of  comfortable  cars,  their  slow 


INTRODUCTORY:  SPANISH  TRAVEL     13 

trains,  their  delays,  and  their  many  curious  fea- 
tures ;  but  after  traversing  the  country  from  south 
to  north,  and  after  traveling  by  many  different 
lines,  we  were  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  these 
difficulties  had  either  passed  away  or  had  been 
grossly  exaggerated;  and  we  ended  by  voting  the 
Spanish  railways,  with  all  their  faults,  fairly  com- 
fortable and  reasonably  efficient.  The  fares  are 
undoubtedly  high,  and  the  time  required  to  cover 
even  moderate  distances  is  often  great.  Corridor 
trains  are  far  from  numerous,  and  in  the  provision 
of  conveniences  for  the  traveler,  both  on  trains 
and  at  stations,  the  Spaniards  still  have  a  great 
deal  to  learn.  But  improvements  are  slowly  com- 
ing, and  already  the  various  lines  boast  occasional 
trains  de  luxe  that,  even  a  fastidious  traveler  will 
admit,  compare  very  well  with  the  service  in  other 
countries. 

It  may  be  well  at  this  point  to  say  a  word  or  two 
about  the  Spanish  railways  in  detail,  lest  other  in- 
experienced visitors  fall  into  some  of  the  pitfalls 
that  we  ourselves  fell  into  for  want  of  a  warning 
word.  To  outward  view,  the  railroads  of  Spain  look 
much  like  other  European  lines,  save  that  the  un- 
usually wide  gauge  of  the  tracks  is  at  once  apparent 
to  the  eye.  The  cars  themselves  are  not  noticeably 
wider,  however,  than  in  other  countries,  and  are  di- 
vided into  the  usual  three  classes.  As  between  these 
classes  there  is  rather  more  difference  than  is  the 
case  in  Italy.  That  is  to  say,  there  is  far  more  dif- 


14  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

f  erence  between  the  first  and  second  classes  in  the  way 
of  comfort.  The  third-class  coaches  will  probably 
be  patronized  very  little  by  voyagers  from  outside 
Spain,  these  cars  being  comfortless  and  almost  in- 
variably crowded.  The  second  class  may  be  used 
sparingly  for  journeys  of  moderate  length  by  day, 
and  the  newer  additions  to  this  class  of  rolling-stock 
afford  a  very  fair  measure  of  comfort.  But  it  cannot 
be  denied  that  the  first-class  carriages  do  offer  by 
far  the  greatest  advantages,  and  I  should  certainly 
advise  the  use  of  them  for  any  journey  exceeding 
two  or  three  hours  in  length,  especially  in  southern 
Spain.  There  are  people  who  affect  to  find  huge 
delight  in  riding  third,  because  of  the  interesting 
contact  with  the  natives  to  be  gained  thereby.  But 
this  is  a  pleasure  confined  to  those  thoroughly 
familiar  with  the  language,  and  the  ordinary  visitor 
cannot  hope  to  share  it.  As  a  general  rule,  then, 
the  traveler  will  wisely  ride  in  the  first-class  cars; 
and  with  the  discount  made  possible  by  using  a 
kilometric  ticket  the  cost  will  not  exceed  the  cost 
of  the  usual  second-class  tickets. 

The  speed  of  the  trains  is  seldom  great.  It  com- 
monly averages  very  little  over  thirty  miles  an  hour 
on  the  fastest  expresses,  while  the  slow  mixed  trains 
rarely  get  above  a  fifteen-mile  rate.  In  either  case 
there  are  likely  to  be  very  extended  stops  at  sta- 
tions, in  part  for  the  exigencies  of  travel  and  in  part 
for  the  convenience  of  passengers.  Also,  I  suspect, 
it  enables  the  more  easy  maintenance  of  schedule 


INTRODUCTORY:  SPANISH  TRAVEL    15 

time  by  affording  some  leeway  at  stopping  points. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  met  with  very  few  in- 
stances of  delay  beyond  scheduled  times  of  arrival 
and  departure  in  all  our  Spanish  journeying. 

The  chief  pitfall  for  the  unwary  traveler  is  to  be 
found  in  the  fact  that  certain  trains  run  only  on 
specified  days,  —  a  fact  which  the  time-table  does 
not  always  make  sufficiently  clear.  Hence,  in  study- 
ing the  published  guides  of  the  railways,  —  even 
the  best  "official"  ones,  which  may  be  bought  at 
any  bookstore  for  fifty  centimos,  —  one  must  make 
sure  not  only  that  a  train  is  scheduled  to  go  at  a 
specified  hour,  but  also  that  it  is  specified  to  run  on 
the  desired  day.  This  intermittent  peculiarity  is  by 
no  means  confined  entirely  to  the  trains  de  luxe.  It 
extends  to  the  humble  "mixed"  trains,  as  we  occa- 
sionally discovered  to  our  sorrow.  Certain  of  the 
faster  and  more  luxurious  trains  are  limited  in  their 
nature,  taking  only  as  many  passengers  as  they  can 
seat,  and  for  passage  by  such  trains  an  extra,  or 
"supplemental,"  ticket  is  required,  costing  ten  per 
cent  of  the  regular  fare  in  addition  thereto.  Such 
trains  are  best  boarded  only  at  large  terminals,  for 
the  reason  that  they  are  very  likely  to  be  full, — 
in  which  case  the  wayfarer  may  be  able  to  obtain 
admission  to  them  neither  for  love  nor  even  for 
money,  as  we  also  discovered  to  our  sorrow  on  an 
occasion  which  shall  be  described  in  its  proper 
place. 

One  other  thing  advisable  to  bear  constantly  in 


16  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

mind  is  the  curious  custom  of  closing  the  ticket 
offices  five  minutes  or  more  before  the  arrival  of  the 
train  is  to  be  expected.  This  precludes  the  purchase 
of  a  ticket  at  the  last  moment,  or  the  belated  ex- 
change of  kilometric  coupons ;  and  as  there  is  very 
likely  to  be  a  considerable  throng  about  the  ticket 
window,  it  is  highly  desirable  to  be  early  on  the 
scene,  even  if  one  has  no  heavy  luggage  to  be 
weighed  and  registered. 

The  kilometric  ticket  referred  to  above  is  also  a 
thing  that  ought  to  be  well  understood  before  start- 
ing, since  its  use  is  productive  both  of  economy  and 
comfort.  It  will  be  found  very  wise  for  the  traveler 
intending  to  visit  Spain  to  provide  himself  before 
starting  from  home  with  a  small  unmounted  photo- 
graph of  himself,  or  his  party  in  a  group,  the  photo- 
graph being  not  more  than  two  inches  square  and 
showing  the  portraits  clearly.  The  possession  of 
this  photograph  in  advance  will  save  valuable  time 
on  arriving  in  Spain,  for  the  kilometric  ticket  must 
be  sent  for  and  is  issued  by  very  few  central 
offices.  On  landing,  the  application  accompanied 
by  the  picture  may  be  dispatched  by  any  hotel 
proprietor  or  tourist  agent,  and  in  three  or  four  days 
the  kilometric  book  will  be  returned,  properly 
stamped.  They  are  issued  in  different  sizes,  the 
larger  denominations  being  available  for  several 
persons  —  but  the  persons  must  be  a  "family,"  or 
business  associates.  The  maximum  number  is,  I 
believe,  seven  people,  and  any  number  less  than  the 


INTRODUCTORY:  SPANISH  TRAVEL    17 

seven  may  use  it.  Of  course,  in  determining  what 
denomination  of  ticket  to  purchase  it  is  important 
to  ascertain  the  total  number  of  kilometres  likely 
to  be  traversed,  as  well  as  the  number  of  the  pas- 
sengers. One  must  not  be  discouraged  by  the 
feigned  ignorance  of  tourist  agencies  respecting 
such  tickets,  but  should  stoutly,  insist  on  having 
the  ticket  sent  for  without  delay.  The  saving  on  a 
long  journey,  even  including  some  portions  of  road 
on  which  kilometrics  are  not  available,  may  total 
a  third  of  the  ordinary  expense. 

As  for  the  question  of  seasons,  it  is  always  to  be 
remembered  that  Spain  is  an  Atlantic  as  well  as 
a  Mediterranean  country,  and  possesses  a  great 
variety  of  climatic  conditions  within  its  rather 
restricted  territory.  The  climate  of  the  Spanish 
riviera  is  commended  by  those  who  have  visited 
it  in  midwinter  as  being  admirably  even  and 
comfortable,  while  the  climate  of  the  great  inland 
plateau,  even  in  the  mild  months,  is  berated  with 
equal  fervor  as  toasting  by  day  and  frigid  by  night. 
Much  of  the  interior  of  the  kingdom  is  a  bleak  and 
lofty  desert,  with  an  altitude  of  several  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea,  intersected  by  ranges  of  snow- 
clad  mountains,  so  that  the  spring  months  may 
be  cold  indeed.  Southern  Spain,  on  the  contrary, 
affords  pleasant  lowlands  and  early  verdure.  The 
summer  is  everywhere  too  hot  for  comfort.  The 
winters,  in  most  of  Spain,  are  too  cold,  and  the 
houses  are  but  poorly  heated.  For  ourselves,  we 


18  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

chose  April  for  our  first  visit,  seeking  to  average 
conditions  between  south  and  north ;  but  after  the 
various  experiments  I  incline  to  believe  that  the 
best  time  is  early  May,  working  northward  with 
the  season.  Of  course,  there  is  much  of  interest 
to  be  seen  by  visiting  such  cities  as  Seville  in  Holy 
Week;  the  great  drawbacks  being  the  presence  of 
crowds  and  the  difficulty  of  seeing  such  pictures 
and  altar-pieces  as  pious  custom  dictates  shall  be 
shrouded  in  purple  cloaks  until  after  Easter. 

Winter  travel  in  Spain  is  unquestionably  the  least 
expensive,  owing  to  the  naturally  lower  rates  de- 
manded for  hotel  accommodation  at  that  time.  It 
is  said  to  be  not  at  all  uncommon  to  find  very  con- 
siderable houses  willing  to  make  rates  as  low  as  six 
or  seven  pesetas  per  day  during  the  colder  months, 
whereas  at  other  seasons  the  same  hostelries  would 
ask  fully  double,  and  perhaps  treble,  that  sum  for 
the  same  accommodation.  The  discomfort  of 
winter  in  Spain,  however,  is  universally  agreed  to 
be  great.  The  heating  facilities  of  even  fairly  large 
hotels  are  often  hopelessly  inadequate,  and  it  is 
only  in  the  comparatively  few  that  are  actually 
heated  by  steam  that  comfort  is  to  be  had.  I  say 
"actually  heated"  advisedly,  for  not  every  pro- 
prietor advertising  that  luxury  always  has  it  to 
offer.  We  met  with  one  who  announced  such  facili- 
ties as  part  of  the  attractions  of  his  house,  and  who 
doubtless  believed  in  all  honesty  that  the  kettles  of 
boiling  water  with  which  he  adorned  his  tiny  stoves 


INTRODUCTORY  :   SPANISH   TRAVEL    19 

afforded  the  luxury  of  which  his  business  cards 
made  so  much ! 

Doubtless  the  great  volume  of  Spanish  travel 
to-day  still  enters  by  the  north,  through  the  great 
main  gateways  of  Irun  and  Port-Bou  at  the  fron- 
tiers of  France.  The  American  voyager,  however, 
will  probably  find  it  preferable  to  enter  by  the 
southern  port  of  Algeciras  and  proceed  northward 
as  far  as  he  desires,  or  his  time  permits.  At  present 
it  is  a  common  practice  for  those  sailing  to  the 
Mediterranean  to  "stop  over  a  steamer"  at  Gib- 
raltar and  spend  the  intervening  week  or  so  in 
visiting  the  southern  cities  of  Granada,  Seville,  and 
Ronda  only.  Needless  to  say,  this  can  hardly  be 
called  seeing  Spain.  The  southern  districts,  while 
interesting  and  beautiful  to  a  commanding  degree, 
are  far  from  being  characteristic  of  the  whole.  They 
are  warmer,  more  fertile,  less  gloomy  than  the  great 
interior  plateau.  The  broad  vega  of  Granada  bears 
no  resemblance  to  the  boundless  deserts  and  bleak 
upland  plains  of  Castile.  Seville  has  little  in  com- 
mon with  Madrid.  In  fact,  the  traveler  who  con- 
tents himself  with  Andalusia  will  depart  possessed 
of  Moorish,  rather  than  Spanish,  memories.  The 
Moor  has  left  an  indelible  impress  on  the  land, 
despite  his  more  than  four  centuries  of  absence. 
His  graceful  architecture  has  been  perpetuated, 
though  with  steadily  lessening  success,  until  one 
wearies  of  horseshoe  arches  and  arabesques.  If 
Christianity  has  triumphed  over  Islam,  it  has  not 


20  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

always  seen  fit  greatly  to  alter  or  amend  the  temples 
made  with  Mohammedan  hands.  The  campanile  of 
the  huge  cathedral  at  Seville  is  still  the  Moorish 
Giralda  tower.  Cordova  worships  to  this  day  in  a 
slightly  modified,  but  thoroughly  spoiled,  mosque. 
Throughout  all  southern  Spain  the  dark  figure  of 
the  resourceful  Moor  looms  large,  ghostly  though  it 
be  after  all  these  years  of  expulsion. 

But  if  the  impressions  carried  away  by  the  visitor 
of  Granada  alone  are  Moorish,  those  borne  home- 
ward by  the  more  fortunate  voyager  who  journeys 
throughout  the  country  are  likely  to  prove  chaotic. 
Spain  is,  in  this  respect,  the  most  curious  of  coun- 
tries. She  is  a  hopeless  composite.  At  the  end  of 
the  journey  one  is  utterly  at  a  loss  if  asked  to  spell 
out  Spanish  art  in  terms  of  architecture.  Spain  has 
been  fated  to  take  her  models  from  others.  She  has 
been  a  generous  buyer  and  an  imitative  borrower. 
She  has,  in  consequence,  developed  no  style  pecul- 
iarly her  own,  and  where  she  has  sought  to  do  so 
she  has  too  often  succeeded  only  in  spoiling  what 
foreigners  brought  to  her  door.  She  has  imported 
Moorish,  Gothic,  Romanesque,  and  "renaissance" 
forms  of  architecture  in  chaotic  profusion ;  and  aside 
from  slight  and  often  dubious  variations  on  these 
themes,  she  has  contributed  almost  nothing  of  her 
own.  Her  forte  seems  to  have  been  the  stern  art  of 
war,  exploration,  conquest,  the  pursuit  of  empire ; 
and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  she  preferred  to 
engage  the  service  of  accomplished  aliens  to  design 


INTRODUCTORY:  SPANISH  TRAVEL    21 

her  palaces  and  temples,  for  which  she  had  the 
money  handsomely  to  pay.  Such,  at  least,  I  take 
to  be  one  explanation  of  the  absence  of  anything 
one  may  properly  call  a  distinctively  Spanish  style. 
She  was  a  collector  rather  than  an  originator  in 
the  realm  of  art  and  architecture ;  a  liberal  patron 
rather  than  a  craftsman.  And  yet  she  produced  a 
few  excellent  painters  of  her  own,  and  at  least  one 
consummate  artist  of  pronounced  individuality,  — 
Velasquez. 

I  recall  listening  once  to  a  lecturer  who  aroused 
my  choler  at  the  outset  of  his  remarks  by  the  seem- 
ingly absurd  statement, " There  is  no  Spain!"  It 
is  only  after  returning  from  that  country  and  set- 
ting about  now  to  collect  my  own  scattered  recol- 
lections of  it  that  I  begin  to  understand  this  aston- 
ishing dictum.  Doubtless  it  was  too  broadly  put; 
but  it  is  almost  a  truth  that  "  there  is  no  Spain  "  in 
the  sense  in  which  one  says  there  is  an  Italy,  or  a 
Greece.  Spain  is  kaleidoscopic.  She  is  a  microcosm. 
She  embodies  a  little  of  everything  without  achiev- 
ing marked  individuality,  —  even  in  climate. 

Her  people  well  exemplify  the  same  curious  trait. 
The  indolent  Andalusian  under  his  softer  skies  is 
quite  a  different  creature  from  the  haughty  Cas- 
tilian.  The  alert  and  businesslike  Catalan  is  differ- 
ent from  both,  and  indeed  is  hardly  entitled  to  be 
called  a  Spaniard  at  all,  even  in  his  own  estimation. 
But  at  best  the  Spaniards  as  a  race  seem  far  less 
light-hearted  than  their  Italian  cousins.  They  have 


22  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

the  sterner  climate,  the  higher  mountains,  the 
colder  waters,  the  more  sterile  soil  to  contend  with. 
Hence  the  less  musical  speech,  the  more  strident 
voice,  the  greater  austerity  and  more  impressive 
dignity,  in  place  of  open-hearted,  care-free  laughter. 

It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  to  find  that  the 
national  character  and  the  national  life  abound  in 
inconsistencies  and  contradictions.  The  same  na- 
tion that  exhibits  such  an  unbounded  fondness  for 
children  and  pets,  that  displays  its  tenderness  in 
speech  in  a  thousand  endearing,  caressing  diminu- 
tives, takes  even  to-day  a  savage  delight  in  bull- 
fighting, and  but  recently  outgrew  the  auto-de-fe. 
The  heart  that  scrupulously  reveres  the  forms  and 
ceremonies  of  religion  may  in  the  next  moment 
condone  actions  quite  out  of  accord  with  the  spirit, 
and  cheerfully  content  itself  with  the  letter  only.  I 
have  known  of  purses  stolen  in  a  throng  kneeling 
before  the  passing  Host !  In  short,  Spain  is  one  vast 
medley,  turn  which  way  you  will, —  north,  south, 
east,  west;  and  one  is  tempted  to  sum  it  all  up  by 
saying  that  if  she  has  one  great  distinguishing 
national  characteristic,  it  is  her  very  lack  thereof ! 
If  she  has  any  consistency,  it  is  in  being  forever 
inconsistent. 

It  is  to  be  borne  in  mind,  as  one  traverses  the 
Spanish  peninsula,  that  Spain  is  a  nation  in  the 
night-time  of  her  existence.  She  has  had  her  stir- 
ring day,  and  for  a  time  at  least  the  sun  has  set.  Of 
the  vast  colonial  empire  of  Philip  II  not  a  shred 


INTRODUCTORY:  SPANISH  TRAVEL    23 

remains.  Spain  is  old,  and  broken,  and  poor;  her 
head  is  bloody  —  but  unbowed!  She  no  longer 
furnishes  the  world  with  gold  from  her  mines  —  but 
she  has  still  her  pride.  It  was  her  part  to  open  the 
way  for  the  westward  course  of  empire,  but  not  to 
hold  sway  over  it.  For  the  latter  task  she  was  as 
unfit  by  temperament  as  she  was  preeminently 
qualified  for  the  former.  She  lived  an  intensely 
active  life  while  it  lasted,  and  then  fell  into  what 
has  seemed  to  many  like  decay.  As  a  nation  she  is 
now  reduced  almost  entirely  to  her  peninsular 
borders,  stripped  of  her  last  remnant  of  maritime 
glory,  and  utterly  without  training  for  anything 
like  a  leadership  in  commerce.  For  old  Spain  never 
was  "in  trade. "  The  Spaniard  was  the  valiant 
chevalier,  the  hardy  explorer,  the  navigator,  the 
buccaneer,  the  man  of  war.  With  the  departure  of 
the  time  for  conquest  and  the  lack  of  new  worlds 
to  conquer  came  poverty  like  an  armed  man,  and 
for  the  arts  of  peace  the  Spanish  race  found  itself 
pathetically  unfit.  The  New  World  empire  proved 
too  vast  to  be  stable.  The  governors  were  neither 
sufficiently  able  nor  sufficiently  scrupulous  to  bear 
a  wise  sway  over  remote  colonies.  What  was  worse, 
she  developed  the  same  insidious  weakness  and  in- 
capacity for  government  at  home. 

The  spectacle  of  Spain  as  she  is  to-day  is  not 
without  its  pathos.  She  is  outworn,  yet  faced  with 
the  necessity  of  beginning  life  anew.  She  finds  her- 
self but  ill  equipped  for  taking  up,  in  her  gray  hairs, 


24  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

the  drudgery  which  she  spurned  in  her  vigorous 
youth.  And  yet  it  would  be  serious  error  to  assume 
that  she  is  cast  down.  The  industrious  Catalan  is 
as  self-confident  and  as  active  in  peaceful  arts 
to-day  as  the  citizen  of  Milan.  The  farmer  of  the 
barren  interior  is  turning  with  renewed  endeavor  to 
the  task  of  making  fertile  the  desert  which  the 
Moor  so  long  ago  taught  him  to  irrigate.  In  view  of 
the  inherent  reluctance  of  the  ancient  Iberian  race 
to  adopt  new  ideas  and  especially  new  methods,  it 
is  perfectly  natural  that  the  unlearning  of  the  old 
and  the  acquirement  of  the  new  should  be  a  some- 
what slow  and  painful  process;  but  hopeful  critics 
aver  that  the  present  period,  so  far  from  being  one 
of  progressive  decay,  is  rather  one  of  transition  to 
a  new  and  different  life.  Everywere,  remarks  a 
recent  writer,1  the  cities,  instead  of  declining,  are 
actually  filling  up.  If  Spain  clings  with  discourag- 
ing persistence  to  the  brasero  for  her  indoor  heating, 
she  does  not  disdain  the  electric  light,  nor  the  use 
of  illuminating  gas.  One  is  struck  by  the  number 
of  tall  chimneys  bearing  the  dates  of  their  erection 
since  1900,  even  in  the  south.  One  who  attempts 
to  obtain  satisfactory  photographs  of  ancient 
palaces  and  bridges  built  by  Roman  and  Moorish 
hands  will  be  seriously  embarrassed  to  find  a  point 
of  view  which  shall  serve  to  conceal  the  network  of 
electric  wires  strung  by  the  descendants  of  the 
obstinate  Iberians !  The  danger  is  not  that  Spain 

1  Havelock  Ellis,  The  Soul  of  Spam. 


INTRODUCTORY:  SPANISH  TRAVEL    25 

will  die,  but  that  she  may  barter  her  birthright  of 
picturesqueness  for  a  mess  of  pottage. 

Nevertheless,  she  seems  fully  to  realize  the  value 
of  her  glorious  past.  She  is  protecting  her  monu- 
ments. Those  who  had  visions  of  the  ultimate  de- 
struction of  the  Alhambra  through  neglect,  as 
Irving  had,  would  find  no  sign  of  it  could  they 
return  to  earth.  Monserrat,  hiding-place  of  the 
Holy  Grail,  is  reached  to-day  by  a  splendid  funic- 
ular railway  and  can  harbor  at  a  single  time  five 
thousand  pilgrim  guests.  Surely  the  country  is 
awakening  to  the  fact  that,  in  common  with  other 
ancient  lands  that  have  borne  a  stirring  part  in 
building  our  modern  world,  she  offers  an  interest  to 
mankind  which  may  be  turned  to  thrifty  account. 
It  will  not  be  in  the  least  surprising  if  the  attraction 
of  foreign  travelers  shall  prove  the  industrial  sal- 
vation of  Spain.  It  is  natural  that  interest  should 
be  awakened  in  her.  It  was  under  her  patronage 
that  our  western  world  was  discovered  and  much 
of  it  colonized,  as  we  never  can  forget.  We  may 
owe  to  Spain  very  little  in  the  way  of  modern  cul- 
ture, nothing  at  all  in  the  line  of  architecture,  and 
rather  less  than  nothing  in  the  philosophy  of  gov- 
ernment,— unless  it  be  a  knowledge  of  what  to 
avoid.  But  for  all  that,  Spain  has  figured  heavily 
in  our  history ;  and,  although  on  different  lines,  she 
has  influenced  the  world  as  potently  as  did  Greece 
or  Rome. 

Spain  cannot  offer  to  her  visitors  the  paradise  of 


26  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

Italy,  it  is  true.  It  is  only  here  and  there  that  she 
spreads  a  scene  of  verdure.  Her  landscape  is  a  suc- 
cession of  fertile  intervales,  gray  mountain  chains, 
vast  and  empty  deserts,  sparse  and  struggling 
groves,  smooth  and  wrinkled  hills  of  tawny  hue, 
river  beds  that  are  almost  dry.  Her  mountain 
scenery  has  an  Hellenic  quality.  It  is  rugged  and 
gray.  It  abounds  in  wild  gorges  and  constricted 
passes.  There  is  the  same  profusion  of  wild  flowers 
and  the  same  dearth  of  trees  that  one  finds  in  so 
many  of  the  mountain  districts  of  Greece.  The 
pine  groves  are  tapped  as  they  are  in  ^gina.  Cer- 
tain tricks  of  pronunciation  recall  the  Greek,  and 
Havelock  Ellis  detects  a  Greek  quality  in  the  na- 
tional dancing.  Where  the  Athenian  peopled  his 
mountain  glens  with  pagan  gods  and  demi-gods, 
the  Spaniard  hallows  his  with  legendary  appear- 
ances of  the  Saviour,  the  Virgin,  and  the  glorious 
company  of  the  apostles.  A  thousand  pretty  leg- 
ends persist.  Poplar  trees  remain  in  abundance 
because  it  is  said  that  God  created  them  first  of 
all  trees.  Martlets  twitter  unmolested  in  the  ruins 
because  they  plucked  the  thorns  from  the  dying 
Saviour's  crown.  There  is  no  situation  in  life  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave  that  the  Spaniard  cannot  fit 
to  a  proverb.  It  is  this  quaintness,  this  wealth  of 
legend,  this  sweet  savor  of  the  true  romance,  that 
gives  to  Spain  its  indescribable  and  elusive  charm. 


CHAPTER  II 

TANGIER 

ENTLEMAN  !  Gentleman !  You  live  in  New 
York?  You  live,  maybe,  in  Chicago  ?" 

Thus  to  me  a  handsome,  swarthy,  white-toothed 
Moor,  standing  in  the  majesty  of  turban,  blue  robe, 
and  bare  feet  thrust  into  roomy,  heelless  slippers, 
on  the  deck  of  what  the  posters  had  announced 
to  be  "the  stanch  and  favorite  steamship  Gibel 
Dersa,"  bound  for  Tangier. 

We  were  slipping  swiftly  down  the  harbor,  a 
tumbling  wake  of  foam  behind  and  a  somewhat 
agitated  sea  before,  the  waves  dancing  under  the 
brightness  of  the  forenoon  sun  and  the  impressive 
mass  of  the  African  promontory  rearing  its  rocky 
bulk  in  the  April  haze.  In  the  middle  northeast 
distance  rose  Gibraltar,  grand  and  gray,  —  but 
steadily  diminishing  as  we  ploughed  our  way  on- 
ward. 

"  You  know  my  friend,  Mr.  Killy ?  "  pursued  the 
bearded  and  smiling  Moroccan.  "  You  know  about 
the  man  who  stole  so  much?  " 

I  was  about  to  confess  entire  ignorance  of  the 
knavery  referred  to,  when  one  of  our  companions  on 
the  steamer  fathomed  the  meaning  of  the  Moor's 
query  with  womanly  intuition,  and  owned  not  only 


28  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

a  lively  recollection  of  the  capture  of  a  western 
defaulter  in  the  city  of  Tangier,  but  also  a  personal 
acquaintance  with  the  resourceful  journalist  through 
whose  efforts  the  capture  had  been  made.  The 
Moor  smiled  a  wider  smile  than  before,  and  pro- 
duced from  the  depths  of  his  burnous  a  portentous 
wallet  from  which  he  extracted  certain  typewritten 
papers  —  the  same  setting  forth  his  claims  to  pos- 
sessing a  friend  in  common.  It  developed  that  his 
name  —  the  Moor's  —  was  Mohammed  Hamdushi, 
and  that  he  was  the  most  trustworthy  guide,  phi- 
losopher, and  friend  to  be  found  in  all  the  trou- 
bled environs  of  Tangier.  From  that  moment  we 
were  his  —  at  ten  shillings  a  day. 

It  had  not  been  our  intention  to  employ  any  na- 
tive guide  at  all  in  making  this  fleeting  visit  to 
Africa ;  for,  while  we  had  entertained  some  tremors 
about  venturing  into  the  land  of  Raisuli  and  Mulai 
Hafid  so  shortly  after  the  Perdicaris  incident  and 
the  still  more  recent  ransom  of  Kaid  Sir  Harry 
MacLean,  we  were  fully  resolved  to  trust  in  our 
several  stars,  not  merely  to  preserve  us  from  cap- 
tivity, but  to  reveal  to  us  the  manifold  mysteries  of 
this  northern  city  on  the  straits.  There  was  no 
resisting  Hamdushi,  however.  To  gaze  upon  him 
was  to  love  him.  To  read  his  letters  and  testimo- 
nials was  to  trust  him.  To  listen  to  his  blandish- 
ments was  to  esteem  him  indispensable. 

I  have  never  since  regretted  Hamdushi  and  the 
hours  we  spent  in  his  company.  No  son  of  the 


TANGIER  29 

desert  could  have  been  more  affable  or  more  gentle. 
No  visitor's  progress  could  have  been  made  more 
smooth,  —  unless  it  might  be  over  the  waves  that 
always  separate  the  incoming  steamer  from  the 
Tangier  shores.  For  be  it  known  that  Tangier  shares 
the  common  oriental  disadvantage  of  being  reached 
only  in  small  skiffs,  which  must  make  their  way 
between  vessel  and  beach  across  a  shoal  that  is  but 
imperfectly  shielded  from  the  winds  of  heaven  by 
a  brief  and  unfinished  breakwater.  The  day  was 
boisterous,  with  a  piping  gale  from  the  east,  which 
Hamdushi  assured  us  was  a  Levanter.  For  the  mo- 
ment we  gave  little  thought  to  the  weather,  being 
in  ignorance  of  the  exact  situation  of  the  harbor 
and  the  town,  and  conjured  up  comfortable  visions 
of  a  placid  bay  sheltered  from  the  breeze  by  some 
friendly  promontory.  So  Hamdushi  and  I  sedately 
exchanged  cigarettes  and  entered  into  an  intimate 
conversation,  seated  each  of  us  in  his  own  fashion 
on  a  bight  of  rope  just  over  the  Gibel  Dersa's  racing 
screw. 

One  need  make  no  apology  for  including  Tangier 
in  the  course  of  a  narration  of  travels  in  Spain.  Not 
only  have  the  Moors  figured  largely  in  the  annals 
of  the  Spanish  nation,  quorum  magna  pars  fuerunt, 
but  more  than  that,  it  is  probable  that  the  Spanish 
race  itself  is  a  more  or  less  direct  descendant  of 
North  African  stock.  Ethnologists  trace  the  origin 
of  the  present  Spaniards  in  large  part  to  the  mys- 
terious North  African  whites,  best  represented  in 


30  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

the  peninsula  to-day  by  the  remnant  of  the  Basques 
in  the  slopes  of  the  Pyrenees.  Certainly  nothing 
was  more  natural  than  that  immigration  in  pre- 
historic ages  should  have  spread  northward  across 
the  narrow  strait  into  a  peninsula  which  is,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  quite  as  much  a  detached 
projection  of  Africa  as  it  is  an  attached  projection 
of  Europe.  That  is  to  say,  the  constricted  waters 
of  Gibraltar  were  no  more  a  barrier  to  immigration 
from  the  south  than  the  rugged  and  gigantic  moun- 
tain chain  was  on  the  northern  boundary,  —  and 
indeed  they  were  rather  less  formidable.  Thus  the 
trend  of  scientific  research  apparently  now  is  to 
find  in  the  modern  races  of  Europe  a  prominent,  if 
not  predominant,  strain  of  a  parent  North  African 
stock,  of  which  the  present  Spaniard  may  claim  to 
be  the  first-begotten  son.  Wherefore  we  may  feel 
the  less  hesitation  over  prefacing  our  Spanish  ex- 
periences with  a  description  of  Tangier,  since  it 
may  well  be  that,  by  so  doing,  we  shall  approach 
Spain  by  the  portal  of  history. 

Our  sail  from  Gibraltar  to  Tangier  proved  to  be 
a  brief  one,  occupying  little  more  than  two  hours 
and  a  quarter.  The  course  lay  close  along  the  Span- 
ish shore  at  first,  and  we  kept  near  it  until  abreast 
of  Cape  Tarifa,  —  from  the  piratical  character  of 
which  neighborhood,  as  is  well  known,  we  get  the 
word  used  to  describe  the  benevolently  protective 
tariff  schedules  of  our  own  government!  At  the 
present  day  the  cape  is  anything  but  formidable  in 


TANGIER  31 

appearance.  It  is  a  very  narrow  tongue  of  land 
thrust  into  the  strait,  dull  yellow  in  color,  tipped  by 
an  equally  dull  yellow  lighthouse  and  backed  by  a 
mud-colored  town  of  unprepossessing  aspect,  which 
I  believe  is  commonly  referred  to  by  every  passing 
traveler,  for  some  unworthy  reason,  as  being 
"typically  Spanish"  in  appearance. 

From  this  cape  the  Gibel  Dersa  made  hurriedly 
across  the  strait  toward  a  distant  and  misty  bulk 
which  we  identified  on  the  charts  as  Cape  Spartel. 
The  Levanter  continued  to  blow  with  steadily  in- 
creasing vehemence,  but  the  ship  proved  herself 
worthy  her  advertised  description  and  was  quite 
as  "stanch  and  favorite'*  as  anybody  could  well 
desire,  or  expect  of  a  vessel  no  larger  than  she  that 
had  seen  better  days  in  English  waters.  On  the  way 
she  overtook  and  speedily  passed  the  rival  steamer, 
a  side-wheel  ship  of  the  old  school,  which  had  de- 
parted from  Gibraltar  an  hour  or  so  ahead  of  our 
sailing.  For  some  occult  reason  the  service  between 
Gibraltar  and  Tangier  is  maintained  only  on  al- 
ternate days,  going  over  to  Africa  on  Tuesdays, 
Thursdays,  and  Saturdays,  and  omitting  Sunday 
from  the  account.  And  although  there  are  two 
lines,  each  sends  its  boats  on  the  same  days  with  the 
other ;  so  that  if  the  traveler  is  so  unfortunate  as  to 
reach  Gibraltar  on  a  dies  non,  there  is  no  alternative 
but  to  await  to-morrow's  embarrassment  of  riches. 

As  Tangier  began  to  come  into  view  and  take 
form  in  a  gleaming  crescent  of  white  along  the 


32  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

margin  of  the  bay,  it  was  made  more  and  more  dis- 
tressingly apparent  to  our  disturbed  minds  that 
the  Levanter  was  blowing  almost  directly  into  the 
harbor  and  piling  up  a  truly  alarming  surf  on  the 
magnificent  curve  of  the  beach.  The  town  faced 
the  east.  Moreover,  such  ships  as  were  already 
there  lay  anchored  at  a  discouraging  distance  from 
the  land ;  and  it  was  with  considerable  anxiety  that 
we  crowded  on  the  forward  deck  and  watched  the 
course  of  the  vessel  with  a  jealous  eye,  thankful  for 
every  foot  of  advance  at  half-speed,  and  at  the  end 
devoutly  grateful  for  every  inch  of  drifting  that  was 
allowed  to  slip  beneath  our  keel  before  the  anchor 
was  let  go.  But  even  at  the  very  last,  when  the 
anchor  went  into  the  waves  with  a  splash  and  much 
rumbling  of  chains,  we  were  a  truly  appalling  dis- 
tance from  the  pier  and  the  billows  were  running 
what  seemed  to  our  landsmen's  imagination  to  be 
mountains  high.  Hamdushi,  however,  regarded  it 
as  a  very  mild  and  peaceful  day  —  for  Tangier; 
and  so  apparently  did  his  fellow  countrymen,  who 
came  swarming  out  in  strong  shore  boats,  four  stal- 
wart Moors  pulling  stoutly  at  the  oars  of  each, 
while  a  be-fezzed  Mussulman  sat  calmly  steering  in 
the  stern,  imperturbable  cigarette  jauntily  depend- 
ing from  lip. 

A  half-dozen  of  these  craft  gathered  on  the  lee 
side  of  the  Gibel  Dersa  as  she  swung  to  the  wind 
and  a  vociferous  quarrel  instantly  broke  out  as  to 
the  choice  of  positions.  Handushi  marshaled  us  to 


IN  A  TANGIER   BYWAY 


TANGIER  33 

the  ladder  and  handed  us  and  our  luggage  into  the 
first  craft  that  offered ;  but  it  was  a  somewhat  tick- 
lish business,  since  the  boats  rose  and  fell  with  each 
advancing  wave  in  a  manner  to  bother  any  but  an 
experienced  acrobat.  Eventually,  however,  all  was 
safely  stowed;  and  then  ensued  a  second  quarrel 
compared  with  which  the  previous  altercation  had 
been  a  holy  calm.  It  seemed  that  our  boat  had 
carelessly  drifted  away  from  the  ladder  and  another 
had  immediately  taken  her  place  before  the  quota 
of  our  passengers  was  complete.  The  gesticulation 
and  shouting  in  outlandish  tongues  that  accom- 
panied the  solution  of  the  difficulties  was  little  short 
of  terrifying.  Our  party  sat  disconsolately  in  the 
bobbing  stern,  looking  the  picture  of  worried  woe, 
while  the  angry  Moors,  heedless  of  the  wild  jump- 
ing of  the  craft,  raged  more  and  more  fiercely, 
shaking  fists  and  raising  their  shrieks  to  a  higher 
and  higher  pitch.  Decidedly  it  was  time  to  stop  all 
this!  So  Hamdushi  was  duly  authorized  to  offer 
an  extra  inducement  to  the  crew  in  the  shape  of 
a  shilling  or  two.  The  effect  was  magical  —  and  I 
suspect  that  this  was  the  one  aim  and  object  of  all 
this  dissension  from  the  start.  We  were  off  at  last, 
across  a  decidedly  lively  sea.  The  only  real  danger 
was  that  of  shipping  a  comber  which  might  wet  us 
to  the  skin ;  but  the  helmsmen  were  skillful,  and  the 
tiny  craft  drew  inside  the  line  of  the  breakwater  at 
last,  where  the  sea  was  as  calm  as  a  pond.  The 
actual  landing  was  simple,  being  accomplished  by 


34  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

climbing  a  flight  of  steps,  so  that  our  visions  of 
being  carried  through  the  surf  on  the  backs  of  stal- 
wart oarsmen  went  unrealized.  They  have  begun 
to  do  things  better  than  of  yore,  even  in  this  ob- 
stinate outpost  of  Islam. 

We  were  fortunate  to  have  Hamdushi  along,  I 
imagine,  because  he  paid  for  everything.  Not  that 
this  reduced  the  costs  of  getting  ashore,  necessarily, 
—  and  they  are  always  a  source  of  extortion;  but 
simply  that  we  were  spared  endless  bickerings  over 
the  matter  in  the  traveler's  common  frenzy  to  avoid 
being  cheated.  If  we  were  victimized,  we  had  the 
supreme  satisfaction  of  knowing  nothing  about  it, 
and  this  is  well  worth  all  it  can  possibly  cost  one. 

Our  hotel  —  or  rather  Hamdushi 's,  for  he  was 
attached  to  it  in  the  capacity  of  a  runner  —  was 
on  the  beach,  —  the  only  one  there,  in  fact ;  and 
Hamdushi  pronounced  it  a  very  short  walk  indeed. 
It  proved,  however,  to  be  a  very  appreciable  dis- 
tance away,  through  a  warm  and  sunlit  noontide 
that  had  driven  the  natives  to  their  sleep  in  the 
shade  of  many  a  white  wall.  What  little  luggage  we 
possessed  was  loaded  on  a  diminutive  and  patient 
ass,  after  passing  the  somnolent  scrutiny  of  a  cross- 
legged  old  Moor  who  sat  in  the  cool  darkness  of  a 
horseshoe  arch  and  posed  as  collector  of  the  port. 
Nobody  even  suggested  backsheesh.  An  agile 
attendant  slapped  the  laden  donkey  and  it  started 
off  enthusiastically  up  a  slimy  pavement  of  cobbles, 
we  following  as  best  we  could,  —  which  was  n't 


TANGIER  35 

very  well.  By  the  time  we  had  gotten^dear  of  the 
buildings  of  the  dock  and  had  fairly  entered  the 
narrow  and  winding  streets  of  the  city,  the  baggage 
was  hopelessly  lost  to  view  in  the  mazes  ahead. 
Hamdushi,  however,  reassured  us  as  to  its  safety, 
remarking  with  a  haughty  air  which  became  his 
stately  person  well,  "You  remember,  this  is  not 
Spain." 

Eventually,  after  a  bewildering  succession  of 
twists  and  turns,  always  following  the  shaded  sides 
of  several  very  narrow  byways,  we  came  down  a 
long  and  dusty  incline  to  a  city  gate,  and  the  mag- 
nificent crescent  of  the  beach  lay  before  us.  The 
donkey  with  all  our  worldly  goods  was  making 
lively  time  across  the  sands  in  the  direction  of  a 
white-walled  building  which  we  knew  for  the  Hotel 
Cecil.  Long  lines  of  breakers  piled  up  by  the  wind 
raced  in  parallel  ranks  upon  the  sands  of  the  beach 
with  a  muffled  roar.  Out  beyond  the  ultimate  build- 
ings of  the  city  rose  great  yellow  dunes  of  sand,  as 
if  of  the  Sahara,  and  over  its  golden  surface  scam- 
pered numerous  small  figures  which  we  later  dis- 
covered to  be  horsemen.  Beautiful  horses  passed 
us  continually,  and  men  on  mules  and  donkeys  were 
numerous.  But  of  wheeled  vehicles  there  were 
none,  and  no  caravan  of  camels  came  up  from  the 
yellow  sands  beyond. 

Hamdushi  was  all  in  favor  of  securing  mules  and 
taking  us  out  to  see  the  town  in  state  immediately 
after  luncheon ;  but  we  insisted  on  walking,  — 


36  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

much  to  his  disgust,  for  the  mule  industry  affords 
the  Tangerine  guide  an  additional  source  of  emolu- 
ment. And  there  is  some  excuse  for  it,  too,  for  we 
speedily  discovered  that  the  walking  in  Tangier's 
cobble-paved  streets  is  not  at  all  good  and  is  very 
wearying  to  the  feet.  Of  course  we  went  first  of  all 
to  the  grand  Soko,  or  outer  market-place,  as  all 
visitors  do.  It  lay  close  at  hand,  just  over  a  low 
hillock,  and  although  it  was  past  the  traditional 
time  of  full-market,  the  place  was  a  scene  of  con- 
siderable squalid  activity. 

Sukh,  the  Arabic  word  from  which  the  term  Soko 
is  derived,  survives,  by  the  way,  in  various  forms  in 
the  several  cities  of  Spain  where  Moorish  influence 
was  once  strong,  and  we  met  with  it  many  times  in 
later  days  when  Tangier  had  become  a  memory. 
The  word  and  its  derivatives  seem  always  to  refer 
to  a  spot  where  there  was  once,  or  is  still,  an  open- 
air  mart.  In  Tangier  it  is  a  vacant,  sloping  hillside, 
bare  of  all  permanent  buildings  and  lying  just  out- 
side the  city  gates  —  for  Tangier  is  a  walled  town 
and  the  gates  are  numerous  and  quaint.  Now  for 
the  first  time  we  came  upon  the  "horseshoe"  arch, 
—  to  give  the  characteristic  Moorish  portal  its 
common  and  vivid  name,  —  with  which  we  were 
destined  to  become  so  familiar  before  we  emerged 
from  southern  Spain,  and  of  which  we  were  even  to 
grow  somewhat  weary,  indeed,  despite  its  inherent 
grace.  Moorish  architecture  is,  like  every  other 
good  thing,  subject  to  abuse;  and  a  surfeit  of  it 


CALIFORNIA 


THE   GRAND   SOKO,   TANGIER 


TANGIER  37 

palls  on  one  after  a  time.  But  now  it  was  new! 
Here  was  the  market  of  Tangier,  flooded  with 
African  sunlight;  and  yonder  were  real  horseshoe 
arches  of  undoubted  age  and  authenticity!  We 
gazed  upon  them  with  genuine  enthusiasm,  and  for 
the  first  time  the  astonishingly  oriental  character  of 
the  place  dawned  upon  us. 

The  Soko  spread  before  us  as  remarkable  a  pic- 
ture as  one  could  well  imagine.  The  whole  spacious 
field,  if  one  may  apply  that  term  to  a  grassless,  open 
area,  was  crowded  with  native  hucksters  of  every 
shade  of  swarthiness.  They  were  sheltered,  if  at  all, 
only  by  rude  huts  or  tents  of  skin,  and  their  wares 
were  spread  in  unstudied  disorder  on  the  ground 
before  them.  It  was,  in  truth,  a  rag  fair  of  a  per- 
manent sort.  There  seemed  to  be  no  limit  to  the 
scope  of  the  activities  represented.  There  were 
many  women,  some  veiled  and  some  with  bared 
faces,  selling  a  variety  of  wares,  but  mainly  vege- 
tables, fruits,  nuts,  prickly  pears,  and  oranges. 
There  were  horse  traders  and  water  carriers.  There 
were  Arab  barbers  and  story-tellers,  snake-charm- 
ers and  letter- writers.  At  nightfall,  they  say  this 
heterogeneous  population,  men,  women,  and  beasts 
alike,  lie  down  to  rest  in  the  midst  of  their  mer- 
chandise. Many  of  the  blacks  —  and  they  were 
black  in  very  truth  —  were  slaves,  both  men  and 
women.  One  grinning  negro,  fat  and  unctuous  and 
as  black  as  a  coal,  clad  in  rags  and  clattering  some 
instruments  that  resembled  brazen  castanets  to 


38  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

draw  our  attention,  came  up  with  us  and  said,  "Me 
very  good  boy!  Sou-dan-ese!  Very  good  boy!" 
And  he  clattered  his  castanets  expectantly  again. 
We  gave  him  a  penny,  which  broadened  his  grin, 
if  that  were  possible.  He  had,  it  seemed,  been  in  the 
United  States  with  some  world's  fair  side-show. 
With  his  grotesque  rags  and  barbaric  music  he  was 
almost  the  most  picturesque  inmate  of  the  Soko  and 
easily  the  noisiest,  not  even  barring  the  water 
carriers  who  constantly  tinkled  by  with  their  little 
bells  and  dripping  goatskins.  But  it  was  a  squalid 
place  contrasting  sharply  with  the  pinky  white  of 
the  city  walls  and  the  barbaric  grace  of  the  pointed 
arches. 

Hamdushi  cut  short  our  inspection  of  it  to  show 
us  a  snake-charmer  whose  lair  was  in  a  far  corner  of 
the  market.  He  was  a  bearded  old  fellow  seated  on 
a  mat  in  the  open  air,  and  at  the  approach  of  a 
party  of  strangers  he  and  a  confederate  set  them- 
selves to  beating  a  tomtom  and  producing  a  lugu- 
brious wailing  strain  from  a  tibble,  or  native  flute. 
Doubtless  this  was  partly  to  draw  custom  and 
partly  to  charm  the  snakes ;  for  after  performing  in 
this  way  for  a  while,  the  old  man  laid  his  tibble 
aside  and  drew  from  the  recesses  of  a  gunnysack  at 
his  feet  a  prosperous-looking  serpent.  The  confed- 
erate still  kept  up  an  energetic  beating  of  the  tom- 
tom, but  apparently  the  snake  was  not  yet  suffi- 
ciently charmed,  for  he  bit  viciously  at  the  old 
man's  hand,  and  the  effect  was  to  make  the 


TANGIER  39 

charmer  wince  visibly  whilst  he  was  fishing  around 
in  the  darkness  of  the  sack  for  his  pet.  Once  the 
reptile  was  drawn  forth,  however,  he  grew  slowly 
rigid  and  soon  was  quite  calm,  no  longer  darting 
forth  his  fangs.  Having  thus  lulled  the  snake  to  a 
torpor,  the  old  man  drew  out  another,  meantime 
laying  the  first  one  on  the  ground,  —  at  which  we, 
in  common  with  several  native  boys  who  had 
gathered  near,  beat  a  precipitate  retreat. 

I  could  not  see  that  the  second  snake  was  of  much 
account,  for  the  performance  continued  with  the 
first  alone.  It  was  a  simple  exhibition,  but  fairly 
exciting  and  extremely  perplexing.  The  old  charmer 
took  up  his  pet  once  more  and  held  him  by  the  neck, 
the  head  almost  touching  his  own  mouth,  mean- 
time advancing  his  tongue  to  meet  the  fangs  of  the 
reptile,  which  were  active  again  and  playing  in  and 
out  like  lightning.  Having  allowed  himself  to  be 
bitten,  and  proving  the  reality  of  his  wounds  by 
showing  us  that  the  tongue  bled,  he  laid  the  snake 
hastily  down  upon  the  ground,  securing  its  tail 
between  his  toes,  and  dried  the  lacerations  of  his 
tongue  with  a  wad  of  shavings  from  a  pile  close  by. 
The  native  boys  and  ourselves  crowded  close  around 
again  in  breathless  interest,  but  the  charmer  drove 
the  former  away  with  his  reptile  as  a  lash,  leaving  a 
clear  field  to  see  what  should  follow.  This  was  the 
truly  astonishing  part.  For  having  rolled  the  bloody 
wad  into  a  small  pellet,  he  seized  a  great  handful  of 
dry  shavings,  inserted  the  pellet,  and,  placing  the 


40  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

whole  to  his  lips,  began  to  blow  vigorously  into  it. 
In  an  instant  smoke  began  to  rise,  but  died  away. 
Further  blowing  elicited  a  fresh  cloud,  and  I  took 
the  precaution  of  sniffing  it  to  make  certain  that  it 
was  really  wood  smoke;  whereupon  he  blew  still 
harder  and  the  whole  mass  burst  into  flame!  It 
was  totally  consumed.  The  tomtom  music  ceased, 
we  applauded,  paid  what  Hamdushi  said  it  was 
worth,  and  asked  how  it  was  done. 

Hamdushi  said  he  was  a  "very  holy  man!"  A 
bystander,  less  credulous  or  more  communicative 
than  Hamdushi,  explained  in  French  that  the  pro- 
duction of  fire  in  this  way  was  "  a  very  clever  trick." 
We  asked  if  the  snakes  were  poisonous,  and  he  said, 
"Oh,  yes;  to  others  —  not  to  him."  But  we  went 
away  with  the  cleverness  wholly  unexposed,  so  per- 
haps it  is  just  as  well  to  adopt  Hamdushi 's  explana- 
tion and  ascribe  the  miracle  to  the  holiness  of  the 
charmer  himself.  In  appearance  he  certainly  ful- 
filled all  the  preconceived  ideals  we  had  formed  of 
holy  men  from  legend  and  painting,  and  dwelt  un- 
mistakably in  the  odor  of  sanctity. 

Writing  at  this  time  and  at  this  distance  from 
Tangier,  I  find  it  extremely  difficult  to  express  the 
impression  that  the  city  produced  in  our  minds. 
The  whole  atmosphere  was  so  different  from  that 
of  any  city  one  would  expect  to  find  so  far  outside 
the  real  Orient,  —  and  of  course  Tangier,  while 
Mohammedan,  is  hardly  oriental  at  all.  It  is  not  so 
much  the  character  of  the  buildings,  for  many  of 


TANGIER  41 

them  are  like  what  one  expects  to  find  in  Mediter- 
ranean ports  of  the  more  primitive  and  ancient 
type.  Rather  is  it  the  curious  mixture  of  races  and 
chaotic  jumble  of  costumes  that  jostles  its  way 
through  the  tortuous  and  constricted  highways  of 
the  town.  It  is  claimed  that  Tangier  is  too  cosmo- 
politan now  to  be  deemed  characteristically  Mo- 
roccan, and  this  is  probably  quite  true.  The  con- 
tiguity to  European  civilization  and  the  constant 
rubbing  of  elbows  with  tourist  travel  have  naturally 
produced  some  effect.  But  neither  element  has  suc- 
ceeded in  depriving  the  city  of  its  orientalism. 
Magnificent,  bronzed  Arabs,  sons  of  the  Sahara, 
clad  in  the  voluminous  white  burnous  which  covers 
head  and  body  in  its  capacious  folds,  stalk  in  ter- 
rible dignity  through  the  streets;  Moors  in  blue, 
with  fez  or  turban,  are  at  every  turn.  Jews,  not 
confined  to  their  ghetto,  glide  hither  and  yon  in 
their  sombre  gaberdines.  Full-lipped  Riff  boys, 
Soudanese  slaves,  pale-faced  half-breeds  of  a  Turk- 
ish cast,  English,  Spaniards,  negroes,  mulattoes,  — 
there  is  no  end  to  the  infinite  variety.  The  air  is 
filled  with  strange  cries.  The  passing  groups  are 
talking  a  new  and  guttural  speech. 

Here  one  is  under  a  different  theology;  there  is 
no  god  but  Allah,  even  though  Franciscan  monks 
may,  as  they  do,  interrupt  the  muezzin  with  the 
clamor  of  their  bells.  The  Christian's  domain 
ceases  abruptly  with  the  strait,  and  in  Tangier  the 
very  religion  permeates  the  air  with  a  different 


42  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

quality.  It  is  Moorish,  but  in  the  modern  way.  As 
of  old  the  streets  are  extremely  narrow  and  winding, 
—  to  make  them  cool  and  dark  under  the  glare  of 
the  African  sun.  But  there  is  little  of  the  magnifi- 
cence of  architecture  that  Granada  and  Seville  have 
taught  us  to  associate  with  the  name  of  the  Moorish 
race.  The  city,  prosperous  seaport  as  it  is  from  the 
Moroccan  standpoint,  is  yet  too  poor  to  boast  grand 
alcazars.  It  is  said  in  this  respect  not  to  compare 
with  Fez,  which  is  the  capital,  or  was  before  the 
Sultan  was  forced  to  become  a  migratory  monarch 
with  a  capital  where  he  laid  his  turban.  There  are 
horseshoe  arches,  it  is  true,  and  many  a  picturesque 
doorway  and  secluded  court,  but  nothing  savoring 
of  the  rare  magnificence  of  the  Alhambra. 

Our  recollection  of  Tangier  is  therefore  of  a  rather 
chaotic  kind.  The  city  frames  itself  in  my  mind's 
eye  as  a  huddled  mass  of  white  houses,  glittering 
in  the  sun  and  rising  in  a  steep  crescent  from  the 
bluest  of  bays  against  a  line  of  green  hills.  Behind 
it  lies  an  open  country  cut  into  tiny  plantations 
hedged  about  with  cactus  and  traversed  by  broad 
but  vague  and  formless  roads.  Internally  the  city 
is  crooked,  squalid,  rough-paved,  and  hilly.  Tall 
white  or  slightly  tinted  buildings  hem  in  streets 
that  are  no  more  than  alleys.  The  cobbles  are 
coated  with  slime  in  the  dark  depths  of  by-ways  to 
which  the  sun  does  not  penetrate.  There  are  no 
carriages  at  all  and  no  carts,  save  in  the  outer  coun- 
try, where  a  very  few  may  be  employed.  In  Tan- 


TANGIER  43 

gier  there  is  not  room  for  such  vehicles.  The  Brit- 
ish consul  imported  one,  it  is  said,  but  the  natives 
on  bringing  it  ashore  insisted  on  taking  off  all  its 
wheels.  In  consequence,  all  traffic  passes  on  mules 
and  burros,  and  thus  do  people  transport  them- 
selves. Ladies,  paying  polite  calls,  go  in  all  their 
finery  on  donkey-back,  but  use  saddles  that  are  not 
unlike  chairs.  Every  one  rides  on  something.  No 
one  walks  any  distance  if  he  can  avoid  it.  If  he  is 
rich,  he  owns  as  fine  a  horse  as  you  will  find  any- 
where in  the  world.  If  poor,  he  trots  serenely  up 
and  down  the  streets,  side-saddle  on  a  burro. 

It  is  the  twilight  of  the  cavernous  alleys,  the 
bits  of  color  which  slanting  shafts  of  light  reveal  at 
rare  intervals,  the  occasional  obtrusion  of  a  charm- 
ing fragment  of  architecture,  and  above  all  the 
quaint  features  of  the  passing  throng,  alike  in  cos- 
tume, occupation,  race,  and  color,  that  give  to 
Tangier  its  subtle  charm.  These  were  the  things 
that  chiefly  impressed  us  as  we  rambled  all  the 
balmy  afternoon  through  that  blind  maze  of  nar- 
row streets,  under  dank  arches,  up  steep  hills,  and 
down  slippery  cobbles  into  densely  populated  val- 
leys in  the  midst  of  the  town.  Here  and  there, 
through  half-open  doors,  one  had  glimpses  of  small 
gardens,  whose  paths  were  paved  with  tiny  pebbles 
and  lined  with  fragrant  hedges  closely  cropped. 
Over  occasional  walls  feathery  palms  towered 
toward  the  sky,  reaching  up  into  the  sunshine  out 
of  the  gloomy  twilight  below.  Anon  we  heard  the 


44  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

warning  tinkle  of  the  water  carrier's  bell  and 
stepped  aside  to  let  him  pass,  —  a  swart  giant, 
robed  all  in  raggedness,  his  goatskin  slung  dripping 
from  his  back  and  distended  with  good  water  from 
the  public  wells.  At  the  wells  themselves  we  would 
find  always  a  motley  throng  of  these  same  water 
venders  filling  up  the  skins  preparatory  to  renewing 
their  ceaseless  wanderings  through  the  city.  And 
finally,  after  a  sharp  scramble  up  a  steep  pitch,  we 
came  out  upon  a  commanding  eminence  at  the 
farther  side  of  the  town  whence  an  extended  view 
was  to  be  had  over  its  closely  packed  roofs  and 
white-walled  houses  to  the  deep  blue  of  the  bay 
and  the  long  sickle  of  yellow  sands  that  formed  the 
curving  beach,  —  the  skyline  broken  by  the  slender 
shafts  of  minarets  and  the  green-tiled  tower  of  the 
great  mosque. 

It  was  in  the  course  of  our  wanderings  through 
these  mazes  of  streets  and  alleys  that  we  came  upon 
another  "very  holy  man,"  also  attended  with  the 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  barbaric  music.  We  were 
made  aware  of  him  from  afar  by  the  medley  of 
sounds  proceeding  from  tomtoms,  flutes,  and  native 
fiddles,  and  soon  discovered  him  in  a  side  street, 
with  a  brave  array  of  musicians  and  a  banner  on 
a  pole.  Hamdushi,  for  some  reason,  kept  us  aloof 
from  him,  merely  remarking  on  his  extreme  sanc- 
tity and  on  the  nature  of  his  errand,  which  seemed 
to  be  the  collection  of  funds.  I  more  than  half  sus- 
pect that  Hamdushi  avoided  him  from  motives  of 


TANGIER  45 

thrift.  Also  he  seemed  reluctant  to  take  us  to  hear 
the  muezzin's  call  from  the  tower  of  the  great 
mosque,  believing,  I  suppose,  that  this  would 
degrade  his  worship  to  the  level  of  a  show.  As  for 
entering  the  mosque,  that  seemed  to  be  entirely  out 
of  the  question. 

He  did,  however,  conduct  us  to  certain  shops  in 
the  Soko  Chi co,  — a  second  but  smaller  market-place 
in  the  centre  of  the  city,  —  and  I  doubt  not  that  he 
reaped  his  share  of  the  shopkeepers'  profits  in  com- 
missions after  the  manner  of  guides  and  couriers  the 
world  over.  The  little  Soko  was  far  less  barbaric 
than  the  greater  one  outside  the  wall,  but  it  made 
up  in  activity  and  congestion  what  it  lacked  in 
wildness.  How  so  many  hawkers  of  edibles,  money- 
changers, handcart  men,  pedestrians,  and  men  on 
horseback  manage  to  transact  business  and  find 
passage  in  so  tiny  a  square  is  incomprehensible; 
but  they  do  it,  and  great  is  the  clatter  and  bustle. 
Post-offices,  a  cable  office,  cafes,  and  even  a  small 
hotel  abutted  upon  this  narrow,  side-hill  square, 
which  we  found  bristling  with  life  and  resonant 
with  the  chatter  of  bargainers,  the  shouts  of 
mounted  men  clamoring  for  passageway,  the  clink 
of  coins,  and  the  yelping  of  mangy  dogs.  In  the 
dark  recesses  of  neighboring  hallways,  squatting 
Moors  were  hammering  industriously  at  great  discs 
of  brass,  making  huge  trays  adorned  with  intricate 
repousse  patterns  of  arabesques. 

On  the  way  home  we  were  initiated  into  the  mys- 


46  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

teries  of  the  Moorish  coffee-house,  situate  on  a 
street  leading  steeply  down  to  the  beach  and 
reached  by  a  remarkably  steep  flight  of  stairs,  ob- 
scurely lighted  and  productive  of  many  stumbles. 
It  gave  access  to  a  huge  room,  carpeted  with  fra- 
grant mattings  and  hung  with  the  same  material. 
On  the  floor  squatted  a  small  group  of  Moors  play- 
ing a  game  with  curiously  figured  cards,  and  sipping 
gravely  now  and  again  from  tall  glasses  of  tea-and- 
mint,  steaming  hot.  Hamdushi  ordered  one  of 
these  for  himself,  but  said  we  would  probably  not 
enjoy  it,  and  gave  us  coffee  instead,  which  was 
syrupy  and  thick  like  that  of  Athens  and  Con- 
stantinople. Meantime  the  players  stopped  their 
game  and  regarded  us  with  grave  and  courteous 
curiosity,  filling  their  tiny  pipes  with  hasheesh  and 
smoking  with  much  grace.  Hamdushi  and  I  went 
through  our  stately  exchange  of  cigarettes,  and 
presently  departed,  leaving  the  Moors  to  their 
game.  The  chief  activity  of  the  place,  as  we  later 
discovered,  was  at  night. 

It  being  a  time  of  tranquillity  in  Tangier,  freed 
for  the  moment  of  the  fear  of  the  bandit  Raisuli, 
we  were  allowed  a  brief  ride  on  mules  through  the 
environing  country.  We  confined  our  leisurely 
jaunt  to  the  immediate  environs  of  the  city,  giving 
no  more  than  a  longing,  lingering  look  down  the 
broad  and  dusty  highway  that  wandered  off  across 
the  bare  plains  toward  Fez  and  Tetuan.  It  was  a 
charming  ride  through  winding  lanes  hedged  close 


TANGIER  47 

with  tall  cacti.  There  was  no  sign  of  the  vast  in- 
terior desert.  All  the  countryside  was  green  and 
smiling  and  cut  into  an  infinitude  of  tiny  plan- 
tations. Far  to  the  westward  of  the  city  rose  the 
great  hill  which  Hamdushi  said  was  the  abode  of 
the  more  wealthy  residents,  and  which,  he  said, 
was  called  "  Mount  Vashington."  Real  estate,  he 
claimed,  was  constantly  increasing  in  value  be- 
cause of  the  insistent  foreign  demand  for  it.  And 
indeed  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  more  beautiful 
outlook  than  is  to  be  obtained  from  the  lofty 
heights  above  Tangier,  commanding,  as  it  does,  a 
view  of  the  entire  strait  of  Gibraltar,  the  rugged 
coast  of  Spain,  the  broad  sweep  of  the  shores  of 
northern  Africa,  and  Gibraltar's  magnificent  rock, 
dim  and  gray  to  the  eastward. 

On  the  summit  just  to  the  west  of  the  city  we 
came  upon  a  spacious  parade-ground,  where  the 
local  detachment  of  the  army  was  drilling.  We 
reviewed  the  parade  from  the  backs  of  our  mules, 
and  it  was  nearly  an  hour  before  the  ravished 
Hamdushi  could  be  induced  to  tear  himself  away 
from  it.  There  were  but  two  companies  of  infantry, 
but  their  marching  was  a  wonderful  sight,  and  the 
bands  that  played  for  the  evolutions  were  more 
wonderful  still.  There  were  two  sections  of  the 
latter,  one  equipped  with  instruments  resembling 
cornets  and  the  other  with  squeaky  flutes,  and 
these  two  bodies  of  musicians  played  antiphonally 
under  the  direction  of  an  enormous  and  very  highly 


48  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

colored  drum-major,  who  was  even  more  deeply 
imbued  with  the  responsibilities  of  that  martial 
position  than  is  common  among  the  guild,  —  if  that 
can  be  imagined.  To  see  this  gigantic  negro  min- 
strel conducting  his  earnest  musicians  was  in- 
tensely diverting,  and  to  Hamdushi  it  was  appar- 
ently the  quintessence  of  military  glory.  His  eyes 
sparkled,  his  shoulders  straightened,  and  he  called 
aloud  upon  us  to  admire  this  impressive  display  of 
Moroccan  chivalry.  No  truer  patriot  than  Ham- 
dushi ever  drew  breath.  To  us,  however,  this  awk- 
ward squad  of  Riff  boys  was  vastly  less  impressive 
than  the  silent  but  magnificent  figures  that  dashed 
by  now  and  then  on  their  superb  horses,  either  in 
uniforms  or  wearing  the  costume  of  the  desert, 
and  needing  only  the  long-stocked  guns  to  make 
them  figures  out  of  some  painter's  canvas.  The 
horsemanship  of  Morocco  is  far  famed,  and  it  is  a 
lasting  regret  that  we  had  no  opportunity  to  see 
more  of  it,  along  with  the  wild  powder-play  which 
forms  the  favorite  means  of  celebration. 

But  of  all  our  recollections  of  Tangier  I  think  the 
strongest  relates  to  our  evening  stroll  to  the  city 
and  its  coffee-house.  Darkness  set  in  early,  and  when 
we  left  the  hotel  between  eight  and  nine  it  was 
pitchy  black  along  the  beach,  where  the  long  rollers 
came  in  ghostly  white.  Hamdushi,  however,  had 
brought  with  him  a  silent  attendant  of  great  stat- 
ure and  portentous  swarthiness,  robed  in  a  volu- 
minous cape,  who  bore  a  huge  square  lantern  about 


TANGIER  49 

the  size  and  shape  of  a  large  bonnet  box.  Within 
there  was  a  single  candle,  and  by  the  light  of  this 
ineffectual  fire  we  stumbled  across  the  deserted 
beach  where  the  surf  was  pounding  so  mournfully, 
and  up  the  rocky  steep  that  led  into  the  town.  Out 
on  the  bay  twinkled  the  lights  of  various  ships,  but 
there  was  no  sound  save  for  the  muffled  roar  of  the 
waves  and  the  crunch  of  our  feet  on  the  pebbles. 
The  streets,  when  we  reached  them,  were  dark  and 
almost  deserted ;  and  the  few  shrouded  figures  that 
strode  past  us  in  the  gloom  bearing  lanterns  like  our 
own  added  to  the  weirdness  of  the  scene. 

Within  the  coffee-hous£,  however,  there  was  light 
and  cheer.  From  its  windows  there  trickled  a  curi- 
ous wailing  chant,  accompanied  by  a  joyful  noise  on 
the  psaltery  and  harp,  or  their  Moorish  equivalents, 
including  the  inevitable  and  very  melancholy  in- 
strument of  two  strings  which  does  national  duty 
as  a  fiddle.  The  men  were  seated  as  usual  on  the 
floor,  ranged  along  the  wall.  Some  were  smoking 
the  tiny  pipes  of  hasheesh  and  sipping  tall  glasses 
of  tea-and-mint,  whilst  others  sang  a  wild  cadence 
that  invariably  drifted  off  into  a  long,  quavering 
wail.  Several  melodies  were  sung  while  we  re- 
mained drinking  our  coffee  and  smoking,  but  I 
could  discover  no  difference  whatever  between 
them,  owing  to  the  lack  of  anything  that  to  our  ears 
resembled  a  tune.  Invariably,  however,  the  songs 
accelerated  in  tempo  as  the  end  was  neared,  and 
occasionally  the  singers  appeared  to  be  highly 


50  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

amused  at  the  words,  which,  being  Arabic,  we  could 
of  course  not  understand  at  all. 

Hamdushi  also  took  us  to  see  some  Spanish  danc- 
ing in  a  rude  theatre  in  a  sort  of  public  house  down 
a  narrow  byway  of  the  Soko  Chico;  but  it  was 
excessively  poor  and  did  not  hold  our  attention 
long,  while  we  endeavored  to  justify  our  presence 
by  drinking  some  glasses  of  bitter  cordial.  The 
Moorish  dances  —  often  indecent  and  devised 
mainly  for  the  entertainment  of  foreigners  —  were 
not  shown  us,  much  to  our  relief,  and  a  very  little  of 
what  we  did  see  sufficed  us.  We  were  soon  content 
to  summon  the  taciturn  bearer  of  the  lantern  and 
depart  through  the  ghostly  streets,  and  out  across 
that  solemn  stretch  of  strand,  the  great  lantern 
bobbing  about  and  throwing  our  shadows,  gro- 
tesquely distorted  and  enormously  magnified,  on 
the  dimly  white  walls  of  the  silent  town.  And  so, 
as  Pepys  would  say,  to  bed,  the  Levanter  howling 
dismally  across  the  white-capped  bay  and  down  the 
murky  corridors  of  the  hotel. 

Getting  away  from  Tangier  proved  a  long  and 
lingering  process.  The  steamer  was  advertised  to 
sail  at  half-past  eleven,  local  time,  —  which,  for 
some  occult  reason,  is  a  half  hour  behind  the  local 
time  of  Gibraltar,  —  but  the  steamer  did  not  go. 
For  two  long  hours  we  lay  in  the  harbor,  looking 
back  at  the  white  town  rising  from  the  water's  edge 
and  glowing  in  the  brilliant  sun.  The  steward  said 
that  the  reason  we  did  not  go  was  because  "  the 


TANGIER  51 

catties  had  not  all  come  yet,"  which  turned  out  to 
be  the  truth.  They  came  ultimately,  —  scores  of 
poor,  bewildered  cows  packed  in  a  hollow  lighter 
which  wallowed  through  the  waves  in  the  wake  of 
an  energetic  tug,  the  stupefied  brutes  duly  drenched 
by  the  flying  spray.  How  in  the  world  these 
"catties"  were  to  be  lifted  aboard  was  not  at  first 
evident,  but  it  proved  to  be  expeditiously  done  at 
the  sacrifice  of  a  little  humanity,  once  the  clumsy 
scow  was  made  fast  to  the  Gibel  Dersa's  fat  sides. 
A  crane  was  swung  out  over  the  lighter,  and  a  loop 
from  its  cable  was  passed  around  two  pairs  of  horns 
at  each  hoist.  Then  the  donkey-engine  started  and 
the  astounded  animals  rose  grandly  out  of  the  com- 
mon herd,  like  kittens  carried  by  the  nape  of  the 
neck,  their  forelegs  drooping  limply  like  paws.  And 
in  due  season  all  were  safely  deposited  between 
decks,  and  moored  to  stanchions.  Naturally  the 
poor  brutes  were  terrified  at  the  usage  to  which  they 
were  subjected,  and  generally  landed  on  the  deck 
in  a  discouraged  heap,  more  dead  than  alive.  In 
each  case  a  vigorous  twisting  of  the  tail  and  well- 
directed  kicks  were  resorted  to,  and  finally  all  were 
gotten  out  of  the  way.  Then,  and  not  until  then, 
did  the  steamer  bellow  her  hoarse  farewell  to 
Tangier  and  thrust  her  nose  out  into  the  easterly 
gale  that  swept  down  from  the  Mediterranean.  And 
soon  Tangier  was  but  a  glittering  speck  against  the 
dark  bulk  of  Cape  Spartel. 


CHAPTER  III 

RONDA 

IT  was  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free,  when 
we  finally  shook  the  dust  of  Gibraltar's  nar- 
row streets  from  our  feet  and  boarded  the  ferry  for 
our  crossing  to  Algeciras,  where  our  real  Spanish 
experiences  were  to  begin.  The  ferry,  a  fat,  side- 
wheeled  steamer  belonging  to  a  line  that  makes 
regular  trips  all  day  between  Gibraltar  and  the 
Spanish  shore,  was  crowded,  but  not  uncomfort- 
ably so.  The  surface  of  the  bay  was  like  a  sheet  of 
glass.  The  mellow  light  of  the  sunset  threw  a  rosy 
tinge  over  the  gigantic  rock  behind,  while  the  tum- 
bling masses  of  African  mountains  to  the  southward 
were  amethystine  against  the  evening  glow.  Great 
masses  of  cloud,  shot  with  crimson  and  salmon 
tints,  floated  lazily  above  them.  The  heights  of 
Spain  just  ahead  were  royally  purple  against  the 
glory  of  the  west.  The  sun  was  gone  now,  and  from 
the  top  of  the  rock  came  a  sudden  flash,  followed 
by  a  dull  boom  which  "  startled  the  desert  over  Af- 
rica" and  waked  the  echoes  of  Spain, — the  "even- 
ing gun-fire"  of  the  fortress.  One  of  the  multitude 
gathered  on  the  deck,  evidently  a  zealous  artist, 
found  the  scene  too  alluring  to  resist,  and  seized 
her  brushes  in  a  feverish  endeavor  to  transfer  the 


RONDA  53 

surrounding  immensity  to  canvas  before  the  light 
failed. 

Darkness  came  on,  however,  before  we  had  com- 
pleted the  few  miles  that  lay  between  the  English 
outpost  and  Algeciras,  and  the  deep  gloom  of  the 
long  and  narrow  pier  at  which  our  boat  came  to  rest 
was  relieved  only  by  pale  and  ineffectual  electric 
lamps.  The  pier  itself  was  crowded  with  people  who 
soon  resolved  themselves  into  porters,  runners  for 
hotels,  and  ordinary  onlookers  whose  evening  occu- 
pation seemed  to  be  to  watch  the  boat  come  in.  Two 
ragged  boys  of  the  many  who  swarmed  over  the  side 
grasped  our  luggage  and  made  off  with  it  into  the 
dark,  we  after  them  as  best  we  could,  stumbling 
over  the  rails  of  a  track  which  ran  down  the  middle 
of  the  wharf,  and  mindful  only  of  Hamdushi's  sen- 
tentious remark  in  Tangier  a  few  days  before, — 
"This  is  not  Spain ! "  We  need  have  had  no  fear, 
however,  of  not  being  able  to  keep  up  with  the 
boys.  Instead,  it  speedily  became  evident  that  the 
difficulty  was  to  make  them  progress  at  all.  They 
kept  stopping  in  the  darkness  and  stooping  down 
to  do  something,  as  I  supposed,  to  their  shoes,  — 
to  tie  them,  maybe,  —  and  so  exasperating  did 
these  mysterious  delays  become  that  we  were 
forced  to  threaten  to  carry  the  bags  ourselves  if 
better  time  were  not  made.  This  had  its  proper 
effect,  and  we  made  our  laborious  way  up  the  long 
wharf  to  a  sort  of  open  shed  which  served  as  a  cus- 
tom-house. It  was  crowded  and  ill-lighted,  and  the 


54  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

examination  of  our  bags  was  purely  formal.  But 
for  the  two  small  porters  it  was  not  so  easy.  To  our 
amazement,  the  two  vagrant  lads  who  had  been  so 
mysteriously  occupied  in  the  dark  were  instantly 
seized  by  a  vigilant  officer  and  haled  to  a  distant 
room,  not  to  reappear.  We  were  forced  to  depart 
alone,  staggering  under  the  weight  of  our  four  suit- 
cases and  wondering  what  had  become  of  the  boys. 
They  were,  as  it  developed,  waiting  for  us  outside, 
having  been  despoiled  of  great  store  of  smuggled 
tobacco !  So  it  was  this  which  had  kept  them  back 
on  the  way  from  the  steamer ;  they  were  stuffing 
it  more  securely  into  their  sleeves!  When  they 
stepped  up  and  endeavored  to  resume  their  burdens 
an  officer  cuffed  and  kicked  them  soundly,  but  ulti- 
mately permitted  them  to  go  with  us.  Decidedly 
this  was  not  a  propitious  entrance  into  Spain; 
and  it  seemed  even  less  so  when,  on  finally  reaching 
the  hotel,  which  stood  on  the  very  verge  of  the  rail- 
way platform,  the  boys  followed  us  to  our  rooms 
and  demanded  thrice  their  fee  for  the  little  they  had 
performed  in  the  way  of  honest  toil ! 

But  the  hotel  proved  to  be  clean  and  well  served, 
and  a  dinner  of  portentous  length  speedily  put  a 
better  face  on  the  matter.  Besides,  it  was  com- 
fortable to  reflect  that,  as  the  railroad  ran  directly 
across  the  hotel  doorsteps,  we  should  not  have  to 
rise  too  early  on  the  following  day.  The  evening 
train  came  grumbling  by  the  door,  waking  the 
echoes  with  its  whistle.  One  by  one  the  sounds  of 


RONDA  55 

the  dark  streets  died  away.  The  crying  children 
and  coughing  peasants  drew  off  to  their  homes, 
and  silence  settled  down  on  Algeciras.  We  were  in 
Spain. 

Morning  dawned  clear  and  beautiful  over  the 
bay  and  rock  of  Gibraltar,  and  in  the  cool  of  the 
early  day  we  marched  down  to  the  little  station  to 
begin  our  Spanish  pilgrimage,  —  three  determined 
explorers,  equipped  with  only  four  suit-cases  and 
"Precious  Darling."  The  latter  was  a  diminutive 
red  volume  of  convenient  phrases,  whose  endearing 
title  but  faintly  reflects  the  esteem  in  which  we  held 
it.  Until  we  had  grown  somewhat  accustomed  to 
using  the  few  rudiments  we  possessed  of  the  Spanish 
tongue,  the  tiny  dictionary  was  deemed  as  essential 
to  our  daily  well-being  as  our  stock  of  coppers.  It 
was  several  weeks  before  we  ventured  forth  into  the 
streets  without  it,  and  for  the  first  few  days  its  aid 
was  constantly  invoked. 

The  train  was  standing  in  the  station  just  below 
the  hotel,  expectant  of  the  arrival  of  a  ferry-boat. 
Its  engine  certainly  looked  capable  enough,  and  was 
of  recent  make.  It  resembled  the  ordinary  Euro- 
pean locomotive,  and  its  trimmings  were  bright 
with  much  polishing.  It  bore  the  gay  and  frivolous 
name  of  "  Bobadilla,"  for  in  Spain  they  still  have 
romanticism  enough  to  name  their  locomotive 
engines.  Behind  the  engine  were  ranged  a  few  cars 
of  the  three  ordinary  classes,  none  of  them  very 


56  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

modern  in  appearance,  but  sufficiently  comfort- 
able to  serve  for  the  run  to  Ronda,  a  short  three 
hours.  Three  hours  on  a  Spanish  railway  is  nothing 
—  a  bagatelle.  After  a  few  days'  experience,  a  five- 
hour  trip,  which  is  the  equivalent  in  time  of  a  run 
between  Boston  and  New  York,  comes  to  be  a  mat- 
ter of  no  more  importance  than  a  trip  "in  town" 
from  Newton,  or  White  Plains,  or  Evanston. 

For  the  present  we  were  traveling  first  class,  which 
was  rather  needless.  For  so  brief  a  journey  the 
second  would  have  done  quite  as  well.  Some  even 
profess  a  partiality  for  riding  third,  —  but  we  had 
one  experience  of  ten  miles  in  a  third-class  coach 
in  company  with  the  local  peasantry,  and  the  ten 
miles  proved  amply  sufficient  to  extract  all  the  en- 
joyment there  was  in  it,  so  that  if  the  ride  had  been 
longer  it  is  doubtful  that  our  enthusiasm  had  been 
stronger. 

As  it  was,  we  found  the  first-class  compartments 
far  from  empty,  so  that  the  pleasures  of  exclusive- 
ness  of  which  we  had  heard  so  much  were  not  real- 
ized. But  it  was  just  as  well  so,  for  the  ride  to 
Ronda  is  one  to  be  shared  with  all  appreciative 
souls.  A  brief  stretch  of  the  line  after  leaving 
Algeciras  was  pastoral  and  meadowy,  but  it  was 
not  long  before  the  engine  began  to  pant  up  long 
grades  into  rocky  defiles  in  the  nearer  mountains, 
through  curious  groves  of  cork.  The  wayside  was 
lined  with  piles  of  the  bark,  and  the  trees,  stripped 
to  their  upper  branches,  shadowed  many  a  station 


RONDA  57 

and  wayside  hamlet.  A  profusion  of  wild  flowers 
spangled  the  fields  through  which  we  slipped  so 
easily  along,  and  each  new  variety  called  forth 
exclamations  of  delight.  But  the  greatest  enthusi- 
asm of  all  was  elicited  by  the  tall  bushes  of  gum- 
cistus,  a  large,  evergreen,  flowering  shrub,  with 
blossoms  not  unlike  huge  wild  roses,  often  in  two 
colors,  but  mainly  white,  as  I  now  recall  them. 
These  showy  blossoms  grew  in  great  profusion  along 
the  embankments  of  the  railway,  and  the  rockier 
the  glens  the  more  the  cistus  seemed  to  flourish. 
The  great  white  petals  against  the  prevailing  gray- 
ness  of  the  rock  afforded  an  admirable  contrast,  but 
nothing  was  needed  to  enhance  the  grandeur  of  the 
scenery.  The  line  led  through  pass  after  pass  in 
the  mountains,  always  following  a  river-bottom, 
now  on  this  side  and  now  on  that,  winding  in  and 
out,  with  ever-changing  vistas  through  gorges 
constantly  opening  behind  and  before.  There  are, 
in  my  judgment,  one  or  two  finer  railway  rides  in 
Spain,  but  only  to  a  slight  degree;  for  the  ride  to 
Ronda  from  the  south  is  easily  among  the  finest. 
It  was  here  that  the  striking  similarity  between 
Spanish  and  Hellenic  scenery  struck  us  for  the  first 
time,  a  similarity  both  of  composition  and  coloring 
that  proved  to  be  very  common  throughout  the 
country. 

The  railroad  from  the  sea  northward  to  Boba- 
dilla  is  an  English  enterprise  and  by  no  means  an 
ancient  one,  which  facts  accounted  in  large  measure 


58  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

for  the  efficiency  of  the  motive  power.  Not  many 
years  ago  it  was  necessary  to  proceed  to  Ronda  on 
mule-back,  and  comparatively  few  then  found  their 
way  thither.  At  present  the  spot  is  increasing  in 
popularity,  and  justly.  To  omit  visiting  it  would  be 
a  serious  mistake,  and  a  thoroughly  needless  one  to 
commit,  for  the  railway,  by  dint  of  a  long  detour, 
manages  to  climb  painfully  to  the  very  summit  of 
the  rock  on  which  Ronda  stands,  and  lands  one  in 
its  midst  —  or  as  nearly  there  as  any  Spanish  rail- 
way ever  does. 

Seated  high  on  a  natural  acropolis  in  the  midst  of 
a  bowl-shaped  plain,  Ronda  is  visible  from  afar,  and 
it  was  fully  three  quarters  of  an  hour  before  we 
were  due  there  when  we  saw  it  first  —  almost  di- 
rectly over  our  heads!  At  the  time  the  train  was 
skirting  the  edge  of  a  hollow  vale  beneath  a  frown- 
ing line  of  precipices,  and  on  the  brink  of  the  cliffs 
above  was  to  be  seen  a  spick  and  span  white  house, 
green-roofed  and  many-gabled,  so  outspokenly 
exotic  in  its  surroundings  that  we  knew  it  at  once 
for  the  new  English  hotel,  pictures  of  which  had 
been  displayed  at  every  railway  station  along  the 
road.  But  how  could  that  be  Ronda?  We  were  not 
nearly  due  there ! 

The  reason  soon  revealed  itself  in  the  course  of 
the  line,  which  climbed  by  long  and  sweeping  curves 
up  the  more  accessible  side  of  the  isolated  tableland 
on  which  the  city  stood,  until  it  was  able  to  attain 
the  level  of  the  town  and  spread  itself  out  in  a 


RONDA  59 

capacious  station  yard.  Here  for  the  first  time  we 
heard  the  guards  call  the  name  of  the  place  at  which 
our  train  had  stopped.  Hitherto  it  had  been  neces- 
sary to  read  the  names  from  the  sides  of  the  station 
buildings,  but  now  the  air  was  resonant  with  deep, 
throaty  shouts  of  "  R-r-r-ronda !  "  with  that  in- 
imitable rolling  of  the  "r"  which  is  the  despair  of 
New  Englanders. 

The  antiquated  Baedeker  had  referred  in  flatter- 
ing terms  to  a  hotel  located  in  the  building  of  the 
station  itself,  above  the  waiting-rooms  and  offices ; 
but  after  examining  them  we  concluded  not  to 
stay.  We  had  not  expected  to  find  elegance  there, 
and  certainly  were  not  disappointed  in  that  re- 
gard. But  the  certainty  of  noise  from  the  trains, 
the  prospect  of  smoke,  the  pervasive  odor  of  hot  oil 
from  the  tracks  shimmering  in  the  noonday  outside, 
and  the  ominous  presence  of  a  Cyclopean  waiting- 
maid,  coupled  with  the  overpowering  memory  of 
that  green-and-white  hotel  on  the  very  edge  of 
things  as  we  had  seen  it  from  the  train,  completely 
routed  our  avowed  intention  to  economize.  The 
hotel  omnibus  had  departed  in  discouragement, 
and  we  were  forced  in  consequence  to  gather  up 
our  several  belongings,  summon  a  long-suffering  and 
very  melancholy  porter,  and  set  off  on  foot. 

The  new  hotel  turned  out  to  be  very  new  indeed. 
Painters  were  still  working  on  it,  and  the  smell  of 
fresh  paint  was  everywhere.  It  bore  the  proud  name 
of  Reina  Victoria,  and  was  managed  by  the  railroad 


60  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

people,  who  certainly  understand  the  gentle  art  of 
flattering  the  royal  house,  for  their  hotels  bear  the 
names  of  nothing  less  exalted  than  queens.  In 
general  appearance  it  was  like  a  modern  hostelry  of 
the  New  England  coast,  and  the  contrast  between 
it  and  our  mental  picture  of  Spanish  hotel  accom- 
modations was  laughable.  Indeed,  it  was  almost 
regrettable  as  well,  because  it  was  a  house  so  hope- 
lessly out  of  character  with  the  country.  In  the 
White  Mountains  it  would  have  been  quite  in  keep- 
ing, but  in  Ronda  —  never !  Let  us  not  quarrel  with 
it,  however.  When  we  were  comfortless  it  lodged 
us,  and,  judging  by  what  we  later  saw  of  the  other 
hotels  in  town,  we  might  easily  have  found  ourselves 
comfortless  indeed. 

Owing  to  her  natural  characteristics  of  topo- 
graphy, Spain  abounds  in  sites  that  are  wonder- 
fully suitable  for  defense.  Ronda  is  one  of  the  many 
such,  a  city  set  on  a  hill,  —  a  flat-topped  hill  with 
precipitous  sides  and  accessible  only  from  the  west. 
On  that  one  side  does  it  slope  gradually  toward  the 
deep  basin  in  the  midst  of  which  Ronda  stands. 
Everywhere  else  the  drop  is  abrupt,  a  tremendous 
and  awful  perpendicular  of  something  like  six  hun- 
dred feet  to  the  fertile  valley  beneath,  which  fur- 
nishes on  every  side  a  smiling  intervale  between 
Ronda's  rock  and  an  almost  perfect  amphitheatre 
of  rugged  gray  mountains.  Nature  meant  this  for 
the  acropolis  of  a  warlike  tribe,  and  meant  it  too 
obviously  for  the  fact  to  escape  the  attention  of  the 


IN   RONDA 


RONDA  61 

martial  people  who  once  made  this  part  of  Spain 
the  theatre  of  almost  continual  war.  To  look  down 
the  steep  sides  of  the  cliff  made  one  dizzy.  Just  out- 
side the  hotel  there  was  a  garden,  —  or  rather  what 
was  about  to  become  one,  for  the  plants  still  wore 
a  haggard  look  of  discouragement,  —  and  just  be- 
yond it  was  the  awful  declivity  of  the  precipice, 
down  to  the  plain  with  its  ribbon  highways  and 
toy  farmhouses.  Leaning  over  the  parapet  we  could 
see  a  tiny  shelf  of  path  running  along  the  face  of 
the  cliff,  but  safe  for  none  but  goats.  Here  and 
there  were  detached  pillars  and  buttes  of  rock,  flying 
buttresses,  natural  bridges,  and  shallow  caverns 
carved  out  by  the  wind  and  the  rain.  Across  the 
plain  there  rose  a  grim  circle  of  mountains,  much 
more  lofty  than  Ronda,  deeply  serrated,  impres- 
sively rugged.  It  was  a  cloudy  day,  and  the  moun- 
tain glens  were  misty  with  the  showers  that  played 
hide  and  seek  among  them;  but  in  Ronda  for  the 
moment  it  was  sunshiny  and  warm.  Everything 
invited  us  to  an  immediate  exploration  of  the  town, 
and  we  set  out  forthwith. 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street  we  came 
upon  an  "  alameda,"  or  sort  of  public  garden,  at  the 
end  of  which,  through  a  grillwork  of  iron,  one  could 
look  down  into  the  appalling  depths  of  the  valley. 
But,  like  the  garden  of  the  hotel,  it  was  not  yet  in 
its  prime.  It  was  not  only  the  beginning  of  April, 
but  also  at  a  considerable  elevation  above  the  sea, 
so  that  trees  were  only  in  early  leaf  and  the  flowers 


62  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

were  not  yet  in  bloom  at  all.  Besides,  a  horde  of 
children  were  beginning  to  gather  about  to  beg  for 
"cinco  centimos," — a  habit  which  Ronda  may 
have  been  late  in  developing,  but  in  which  her  re- 
cent progress  has  been  remarkably  rapid.  Indeed, 
the  chief  industries  of  the  place  appeared  to  us  to  be 
begging  and  the  herding  of  pigs.  All  these  things 
combined  to  render  the  garden  undesirable  as  a 
place  of  long  sojourn,  despite  the  grandeur  of  its 
view,  and  we  emerged  from  it  to  seek  the  centre  of 
the  town.  The  begging  children  came  also;  and  it 
was  because  of  this  latter  fact  that  we  ultimately 
singled  out  one  bright-faced  boy  and  retained  him 
for  the  rest  of  the  day  as  guide,  having  long  ago  dis- 
covered that  one  such  lad  is  vastly  more  effective  in 
preventing  the  importunities  of  beggars  than  any 
number  of  black  looks.  The  latter  expedient,  in- 
deed, we  were  not  yet  sufficiently  hardened  to  try, 
having  read  in  a  dozen  books  that  one  must  always 
deal  gently  and  politely  with  the  beggars  of  Spain, 
big  and  little,  lest  a  worse  thing  happen.  Does  not 
James  Howell  in  his  ancient  but  delightful  "  Famil- 
iar Letters"  remind  us  that  in  dealing  with  the 
Spaniard  "there  is  necessary  a  great  deal  of 
phlegm? "  We  were,  moreover,  anxious  to  prac- 
tice our  Spanish,  and  with  the  aid  of  "  Precious 
Darling  "  the  poor  lad  was  kept  in  animated  and 
thoroughly  ungrammatical  conversation  all  the 
afternoon. 

Thus  attended  we  set  out  on  our  tour  of  the  town, 


RONDA  63 

passing  down  the  central  street  past  the  curving 
white  walls  of  the  bull-ring,  and  pausing  for  the 
time  being  at  the  bridge.  The  bridge  is  not  the  least 
interesting  thing  in  Ronda.  It  serves  to  span  the 
ravine  which  makes  directly  in  from  the  broader 
valley  and  cuts  the  city  in  two  with  a  deep  and  very 
narrow  gash.  The  sides  of  it  are  almost  perpendicu- 
lar, and  its  depth  is  something  like  three  hundred 
feet.  It  is  across  this  tremendous  and  gloomy 
chasm  —  for  the  sun  does  not  penetrate  to  its 
bottom  —  that  the  puente  nuevo,  or  new  bridge, 
springs.  It  is  "new,"  however,  only  in  a  relative 
sense,  by  comparison  with  much  older  and  lower 
bridges  farther  up  the  ravine.  And  while  it  is  some- 
times pointed  out  by  unscrupulous  natives  as  a 
"  Roman  "  work,  it  was  actually  built  in  the  eight- 
eenth century,  which  is  but  yesterday  in  Ronda's 
long  and  eventful  history.  For  Ronda  is  very  old. 
This  really  wonderful  bridge  is  best  seen  from 
below,  whence  one  gets  the  best  idea  of  its  im- 
mensely tall  central  arch.  This  rises  from  the  bot- 
tom of  the  ravine  nearly  to  its  top,  with  a  span  of 
only  about  fifty  feet,  which  makes  the  total  effect 
very  startling  indeed.  Borne  on  the  great  arch  is 
the  bridge  proper,  consisting  of  three  smaller 
arches.  From  the  roadway  thus  led  across  the 
chasm  and  prudently  protected  by  lofty  parapets, 
it  is  possible  to  gaze  down  into  the  cool  green  depths 
beneath,  where  a  brawling  stream  gushes  over  the 
rocks  and  through  a  dense  growth  of  underbrush. 


64  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

On  either  side  the  top  of  the  chasm  is  lined  with 
houses,  clinging  to  the  very  brink.  Evidently  the 
gash  in  the  rock  was  worn  by  the  waters  of  the 
diminutive  river,  —  the  Guadalevin,  —  which  emp- 
ties itself  into  the  broad  vega  below  in  a  series  of 
filmy  cascades,  a  wisp  of  canal  serving  to  turn  the 
power  to  some  account  in  moving  the  wheels  of  a 
few  primitive  mills  at  the  mouth  of  the  gorge. 

"  Paco,"  as  we  learned  to  call  our  boy,  —  the 
name  is  equivalent  to  Frank,  —  led  us  around  to  a 
side  street  on  the  farther  side  of  the  gulch,  and 
pointed  out  a  sharply  descending  path  which  zig- 
zagged down  the  face  of  the  cliff  to  the  valley, 
utilizing  a  spot  where  the  declivity  was  somewhat 
less  abrupt ;  and  by  clambering  down  this  steep  way 
I  was  able  to  get  around  the  shoulder  of  the  cliff  to  a 
point  whence  I  could  see  not  only  the  whole  height 
of  the  bridge,  with  the  full  length  of  its  wonderful 
arch,  but  also  could  combine  in  the  view  the  mills  at 
its  foot,  —  tiny  toy  mills  they  looked  to  be.  Here 
was  the  narrow  cleft  leading  directly  into  the  heart 
of  the  living  rock,  the  white  buildings  of  the  town 
peering  over  the  edge  far  above;  below  were  the 
mills  hanging  to  narrow  shelves  along  the  water- 
course ;  and  still  farther  below  lay  the  smiling  plain 
stretching  away  to  the  gray  and  misty  mountains 
beyond.  From  the  precipitous  hillside  all  about 
came  the  tinkle  of  the  bells  of  grazing  goats  —  and 
suddenly  beside  me  was  heard  the  vicious  thud  of  a 
pebble  cast  from  above.  I  looked  up  quickly  and 


THE    "NEW"    BRIDGE,   RONDA 


RONDA  65 

beheld  the  head  of  a  mischievous  boy  who  was  peer- 
ing over  the  rim  and  making  some  remarks  about 
bestowing  upon  him  "a  little  charity  for  the  love 
of  God."  Not  relishing  the  idea  of  further  bom- 
bardment from  that  vantage-ground,  I  hurriedly 
took  my  photographs  of  the  bridge  and  the  gorge 
and  scrambled  back  to  the  town,  passing  nobody 
more  formidable  than  a  poor  demented  man  who 
grumbled  something  which  I  took  to  be  a  demand 
for  more  charity.  It  was  no  small  relief  to  get  back 
to  the  sheltering  care  of  the  diminutive  Paco  and 
proceed  farther  along  the  streets  of  the  town  itself. 
The  constricted  cutting,  or  tajo,  which  thus 
divides  the  rock  on  which  the  city  is  built,  sepa- 
rates the  town  into  two  very  distinct  and  different 
districts.  The  farther  or  more  southerly  end  is 
occupied  by  what  is  called  the  old  town,  —  natu- 
rally the  more  picturesque  and  interesting.  The 
other  section,  more  commodious  but  less  adapted 
by  nature  for  defense,  is  the  new  town  with  the 
principal  business  streets  and  hotels.  Needless  to 
say,  the  old  town  is  the  only  portion  worthy  of 
much  attention,  and  even  that  can  be  seen  very 
thoroughly  in  a  single  day.  Of  the  dungeons  which 
the  Moors  of  old  time  are  said  to  have  cut  in  the 
living  rock  for  the  reception  of  Christian  captives, 
we  saw  nothing;  but  the  stairway  remains,  over 
which  tradition  says  these  poor  prisoners  were 
forced  to  toil  many  times  daily  bringing  jars  of 
water  from  the  Guadalevin,  its  steps  worn  into  ruts 


66  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

by  the  constant  passing  of  bare  feet.  Into  the 
cavernous  depths  of  this  old  stairway  we  gazed,  but 
did  not  venture  to  descend  into  the  dank  darkness 
below,  content  with  the  information  that  it  was  a 
device  of  the  Moors  to  safeguard  their  water-supply 
in  time  of  siege. 

So  we  wended  our  way  along  the  streets  to  the 
southward,  streets  as  roughly  paved  as  those  of 
Tangier  and  nearly  as  narrow,  indicating  that  car- 
riages and  carts  were  few  in  Ronda  and  that  almost 
all  traffic  went  on  mule-back.  Here  and  there  fas- 
cinating bits  of  the  ancient  architecture  manifested 
themselves  amidst  the  whitewash  of  a  later  day,  — 
doorways  and  windows  of  a  Moorish  cast,  Roman- 
esque arches,  quaintly  carved  portals.  One  I  recall 
especially  was  adorned  with  carved  putti,  —  babies 
with  hands  clasped  over  their  round  stomachs  and 
faces  expressive  of  internal  woe!  Meantime  Paco 
valiantly  shooed  away  the  infantile  begging  popu- 
lation which  followed  us  still  in  hope  of  pence,  and 
led  us  by  a  devious  way  to  the  cathedral.  It  was 
our  first  Spanish  church,  a  curious  blend  of  archi- 
tecture without,  and  coldly  gloomy  within,  yet  far 
from  lacking  in  dignity.  Its  interior  was  as  com- 
plex a  jumble  of  Romanesque,  Gothic,  and  Renais- 
sance as  its  outside  walls  had  presaged.  Owing  to 
its  unsatisfactory  situation  we  got  no  accurate  idea 
of  its  facade,  but  the  rear  of  the  building  adjoining 
a  great  open  square  proved  to  be  fascinatingly  pic- 
turesque, —  a  sturdy,  square  tower  of  massive  bulk, 


RONDA  67 

topped  by  an  octagonal  belfry,  and  adjoined  by  a 
very  curious  two-story  loggia  somewhat  resem- 
bling the  arcades  we  subsequently  saw  in  the 
Romanesque  churches  of  Segovia.  We  found  stone 
benches  in  the  open  plaza,  and  seated  ourselves 
there  to  enjoy  the  church  and  allow  the  bright 
afternoon  sun  to  bring  back  the  glow  which  the 
chill  of  the  cathedral  had  destroyed.  A  bell  clanked 
unmelodiously  now  and  then  from  among  the 
many  in  the  tower.  Innumerable  ragged  urchins 
played  at  a  game  of  ball  in  the  square.  Ancient 
crones  sat  in  their  neighboring  doorways,  busied 
with  gossip,  or  with  various  domestic  activities. 

It  was  just  to  one  side  of  this  square  that  we 
found  an  obscure  street  leading  in  a  winding  course 
through  thickly-set  houses,  and  it  was  through  this 
that  Paco  led  us  with  much  pride  to  an  old  and 
famous  house,  the  Casa  de  Mondragon,  where  is 
still  to  be  seen  a  well-preserved  interior  in  the 
Moorish  manner.  An  old  dame  answered  the  vigor- 
ous bell-pulling  in  which  Paco  took  such  infinite 
delight,  and  admitted  us  to  her  patio,  —  an  open, 
inner  court,  columned  all  about  to  form  an  arcade, 
the  roof  of  which  was  paneled  and  adorned  with 
Moorish  work,  its  wood  blackened  with  age.  A 
picturesque  stairway  led  up  from  one  side  to  the 
upper  tier  of  arcades,  and  with  the  inevitable  well 
in  the  centre,  the  greenery  and  the  mellow  anti- 
quity of  everything  it  was  indeed  a  charming  spot, 
in  which  the  old  woman  took  pardonable  pride. 


68  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

Interesting  as  it  was,  it  shared  the  palm  with  a 
view  which  surprised  us  at  the  end  of  a  dark  hall- 
way, through  which  the  ancient  dame  and  her  little 
girl  soon  led  us.  It  gave  access  to  a  narrow  balcony 
that  overhung  the  precipice  outside.  Here  we  were 
on  the  very  rim  of  the  valley,  and  could  look  up  and 
down  the  whole  side  of  the  city,  along  the  dizzy 
cliffs,  to  the  very  edges  of  which  the  city  buildings 
ventured  to  crowd  their  way,  our  own  hotel  of  the 
seven  gables  glittering  white  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  vista. 

Thence  we  betook  ourselves  to  the  open  country. 
It  was  a  long  and  steep  highway  that  led  down 
through  the  southern  gates,  and  Paco,  resourceful 
as  he  was,  found  himself  unable  to  cope  with  the 
noisy  urchins  who  insisted  on  following  us  along. 
Of  course  it  was  money  that  they  wanted,  —  a 
11  little  dog"  at  the  very  least,  —  meaning  thereby 
the  copper  ha'penny  with  the  small  lion  on  it! 
Repeated  assertions  that  we  had  no  money  were 
laughed  to  amiable  scorn.  Finally,  having  practiced 
a  sufficient  time  with  Paco,  I  hit  upon  a  plan  which 
for  a  while  worked  wonders  through  force  of  sheer 
astonishment.  Turning  to  the  foremost  of  the  boys, 
I  would  inquire  with  a  sudden  show  of  personal 
interest, "  Where  is  thy  house,  chico  ?  " 

"It  is  over  there,  senor,  in  the  second  street." 

" Go  there,  then,  at  once,  boy;  and  God  go  with 
thee!" 

By  dint  of  such  tactics  as  these,  and  still  more  by 


CATHEDRAL  AT   ROXDA 


RONDA  69 

virtue  of  our  faster  pace,  we  wearied  the  children 
of  their  quest,  and  emerged  from  the  gates  at  last 
without  their  escort,  free  to  climb  a  neighboring 
hillock  and  enjoy  the  view  unmolested.  It  was  but 
a  low  eminence,  devoted  to  cultivation,  but  we 
managed  to  find  a  grassy  knoll  and  from  it  obtained 
a  very  charming  view  of  Ronda.  There  she  lay 
spread  out  on  her  flat  and  isolated  rock,  the  deep 
valley  all  around  her  and  the  jagged  mountains, 
now  purpling  in  the  sunset  light,  mounting  their 
silent  guard.  It  was  truly  a  situation  to  have 
invited  the  warlike  men  of  old.  The  sheer  sides  of 
the  cliff,  aided  by  triple  walls  and  many  a  sturdy 
tower,  must  have  made  the  place  a  fairly  impreg- 
nable stronghold  by  the  time  that  King  Ferdinand 
brought  his  forces  down  to  dispute  possession  of 
the  fortress  with  the  Mohammedan  garrison.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  the  fall  of  Ronda  seems  to  have  been 
due  to  over-confidence  on  the  part  of  its  Moorish 
possessors,  who  had  the  temerity  to  leave  a  small 
guard  in  charge  while  the  main  body  of  the  forces 
were  sent  to  harry  the  country  round  about  Utrera. 
On  their  return  they  found  the  Christian  host 
seated  at  their  gates,  not  only  reducing  the  city  by 
siege,  but  actually  storming  the  works  and  demol- 
ishing them  with  their  primitive  engines  and  artil- 
lery. Burning  arrows  carried  fire  to  the  midst  of  the 
city.  The  subterranean  way  to  the  waters  of  the 
gorge  was  discovered  and  walled  up.  The  returning 
forces  of  the  Moor,  unable  to  cut  their  way  through 


70  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

the  armies  of  the  kings,  could  give  no  succor  to  the 
beleaguered,  and  Ronda  fell.  The  Christian  cap- 
tives, worn  to  shadows  by  long  confinement  in  the 
rock-hewn  dungeons  and  by  ceaseless  toiling  over 
those  breakneck  stairs,  came  forth  into  the  light  of 
day  more  dead  than  alive,  and  Moorish  domination 
over  this  inland  Gibraltar  was  forever  at  an  end. 

But  to  us,  gazing  from  that  grassy  knoll  in  the 
peaceful  evening  twilight,  there  was  no  longer  any 
hint  of  war.  The  reds  and  browns  of  the  tiled  roofs, 
the  white  walls,  the  many  towers,  all  harmonized  in 
a  picture  of  peaceful  aspect.  The  smoke  of  numer- 
ous chimneys  rose  straight  into  the  twilight  air. 
Where  once  the  priests  of  Islam  had  called  to 
prayer,  Catholic  bells  sounded  melodiously.  But 
the  sudden  chill  of  the  Spanish  night  settled  down 
upon  us,  and  we  were  forced  to  clamber  back  again, 
up  the  breakneck  street  and  along  the  stony  pave- 
ments to  the  hotel,  where  fires  blazed  so  cheerfully 
in  the  grates.  And  Paco  went  away  supremely 
happy  in  the  possession  of  two  shining  pesetas,  — 
wealth  he  had  not  dreamed  of  possessing  at  morning. 

It  is  said  that  it  never  rains  in  Ronda  except  at 
night,  which  is  certainly  an  advantage,  if  true ;  but 
the  local  tendency  toward  inaccuracy  of  statement 
has  been  remarked,  and  possibly  this  is  a  further 
instance  of  it.  While  we  were  there  it  did  not  rain 
at  all,  although  with  the  darkness  came  a  thunder- 
storm from  the  mountains  that  hem  in  the  vega, 
and  the  roll  and  rumble  of  the  celestial  cannonade 


RONDA  71 

were  taken  up  and  reduplicated  by  the  echoing 
glens.  But  no  rain  fell,  save  in  the  plain.  The  storm 
swooped  around  our  lofty  rock,  bellowed  and  roared 
and  flashed  its  vivid  lightnings,  but  no  more.  We 
climbed  the  stairs,  sought  our  immaculate  cham- 
bers, and,  surrounded  by  the  evidences  of  a  thor- 
oughly New  England  civilization,  dropped  off  to 
dreams  of  swarthy  sheiks  building  seven-gabled 
hotels  at  Manchester-by-the-Sea ! 


CHAPTER  IV 

GRANADA 

WE  left  Ronda  in  the  morning  with  compara- 
tively little  regret  at  the  parting.  One 
might,  to  be  sure,  linger  there  for  days  without 
seeing  anything  new,  and  still  enjoy  it  because  of 
the  incomparable  situation  of  the  town  and  the 
general  picturesqueness  of  its  older  portions.  But 
there  lay  ahead  of  us  Granada,  to  which  we  looked 
forward  with  anticipations  that  easily  swallowed 
up  the  reluctance  we  might  otherwise  have  felt  in 
leaving,  —  anticipations  which  before  nightfall  were 
destined  to  be  more  than  realized. 

With  due  precaution  we  were  early  at  the  railway 
station,  and  while  waiting  for  the  train  were  intro- 
duced to  what  I  believe  to  be  the  smallest  stove 
now  extant.  It  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a 
pocket  camera  attached  to  a  perfect  Mississippi  of 
stove-pipe,  and  its  presence  in  the  great,  barnlike 
waiting-room  of  the  first  class  was  ludicrous  in  its 
contrast  of  proportions.  It  is  used,  I  suppose,  to 
create  a  comfortable  delusion  of  warmth  during  the 
winter  months,  but  its  effect  cannot  be  much  more 
than  psychically  suggestive ;  and  as  it  was  a  warm 
April  day,  we  had  no  need  to  rely  upon  it,  but 
basked  in  the  sunshine  of  the  platform  outside. 


GRANADA  73 

After  leaving  Ronda  the  railway  skirted  the  val- 
ley for  a  time,  the  prospect  from  the  windows 
becoming  steadily  more  dreary  as  the  line  climbed 
to  the  mountain  pass,  —  a  point  even  higher  than 
Ronda,  and  Ronda  herself  has  an  altitude  of  more 
than  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  But  after 
crossing  the  line  of  the  heights  and  beginning  a 
swift  descent  of  the  other  side,  the  train  coasted 
rapidly  to  another  inland  plain,  and  the  aspect  of 
nature  began  to  brighten  once  more.  It  was,  on 
the  whole,  a  pleasant  forty  miles  to  Bobadilla, 
where  we  were  to  change  not  only  carriages  but 
railroads  as  well.  For  at  Bobadilla  the  traveler 
passes  entirely  out  of  the  zone  of  British  influence 
and  trusts  himself  unreservedly  to  Spain. 

Nothing  of  moment  occurred  on  the  way  to  the 
junction.  It  was  a  balmy  spring  day,  but  in  spite  of 
that  the  other  occupants  of  the  compartment  in- 
sisted, in  true  European  fashion,  on  having  the  win- 
dows hermetically  sealed  and  on  smoking  occasional 
cigarettes,  all  of  which  soon  produced  an  atmos- 
phere of  surpassing  thickness,  relieved  only  by  the 
transitory  visits  of  the  conductor,  who  threaded  his 
perilous  way  along  the  running-board  outside,  ex- 
amining tickets.  In  Spain,  as  in  all  Europe,  it  is 
indispensable  to  command  the  corner  seats  if  one 
desires  any  air  at  all.  Left  to  themselves,  the  na- 
tives will  have  none  of  it,  and  will  generally  insist 
on  smoking,  too,  —  sometimes  even  in  compart- 
ments marked  se  prohibe  fumar.  They  may  even 


74  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

invade  compartments  reserved  for  senoras  solas  and 
smoke  there,  according  to  some  accounts ;  but  it  is 
not  often  the  case,  surely.  There,  at  least,  a  woman 
may  be  fairly  safe  from  tobacco,  and  generally  also 
from  men  of  any  description.  But  elsewhere  the 
Spaniard  expects  to  smoke  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  we  were  told  one  story  —  it  exists,  I  think,  in 
all  languages  —  about  a  worthy  caballero  who, 
having  rolled  his  cigarette  and  having  discovered 
by  anxious  inquiry  that  the  lady  next  him  objected 
seriously  to  tobacco  in  any  form,  remarked  calmly, 
"Then,  madame,  you  are  about  to  be  exceedingly 
uncomfortable !  "  —  and  began  to  smoke. 

The  guide-book  proclaimed  a  restaurant  at  Boba- 
dilla  which  was  deemed  worthy  of  a  "  star,"  and  a 
trial  of  it  later  led  us  to  concur  heartily  in  that 
encomium.  A  porter,  locally  known  as  a  mozo, 
insisted  on  taking  entire  charge  of  our  luggage,  and 
disappeared  amid  the  rows  of  cars,  volubly  pro- 
testing the  while  that  we  need  have  no  fear  for  its 
safety  so  long  as  he  remained  unpaid ;  and  we,  with 
one  longing,  lingering  look  after  our  retreating 
equipage  and  recalling  Hamdushi's  contemptuous 
estimate  of  Spanish  honesty,  dismissed  it  forthwith 
from  mind  and  hastened  to  the  fonda,  as  such 
restaurants  are  universally  called.  It  proved  to 
be  a  long,  narrow  room,  containing  a  long,  narrow 
table,  about  which  the  several  nations  of  the  world, 
in  the  persons  of  wandering  representatives,  were 
earnestly  eating  against  time.  Before  each  was  a 


GRANADA  75 

mountainous  pile  of  plates,  the  topmost  filled  with 
food;  and  as  soon  as  the  diner  finished  with  the 
course  in  hand,  —  or  even  ventured  to  look  away, 
— the  plate  would  be  whisked  off  by  a  ubiquitous 
waiter  and  other  viands  substituted,  the  last  plate 
always  remaining,  thanks  to  accurate  calculation, 
for  the  cheese.  This  was,  of  course,  a  mesa  redonda, 
for  Spain  vies  with  Italy  in  calling  the  table  d'hote 
a  "round  "  table  with  a  high  disregard  of  the  dic- 
tates of  geometry ;  and  it  was  a  thoroughly  excellent 
one,  as  well,  as  is  very  likely  to  be  the  case  with  any 
Spanish  railway  restaurant. 

Ordinarily,  the  Spanish  railway  is  considerate 
enough  to  allow  a  full  half  hour  at  the  very  least  for 
the  consumption  of  refreshments,  which  gives  time 
for  an  imposing  meal  of  at  least  half  a  dozen  courses 
and  the  inevitable  bottle  of  wine.  The  service  is 
bewilderingly  rapid,  and  the  waiters  seem  to  be 
omniscient  as  well  as  omnipresent.  To  turn  one's 
attention  from  one's  plate  is  ordinarily  fatal.  In  a 
trice  the  tortilla,  or  whatever  remained  of  it,  is 
gone,  —  and  you  look  back  to  find  a  brace  of  tiny 
chops  staring  you  in  the  face !  As  a  result  of  this 
celerity  everybody  finishes  his  meal  before  the  mul- 
tiplicity of  signals  that  preludes  the  departure  of 
every  train  has  even  begun. 

Now  the  departure  of  a  train  is,  in  Spanish  usage, 
a  matter  of  much  greater  pomp  and  circumstance 
than  is  the  case  in  any  other  country  known  to  man. 
Five  minutes  or  so  before  the  scheduled  moment, 


76  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

the  station  master  sounds  a  prolonged  tocsin  on  a 
large  bell  hanging  midway  of  the  long  platform,  and 
from  every  side  may  be  heard  the  sonorous  intona- 
tion or  chant  of  senores  viajeros  en  tren, — the  final 
word  being  spoken,  or  rather  sung,  with  a  rising 
inflection  that  is  often  almost  churchly  in  effect. 
The  senores  viajeros  obediently  scamper  from  all 
directions  at  once  and  resume  their  seats,  but  the 
train  is  not  yet  nearly  ready  to  go.  Ultimately  the 
same  bell  rings  again,  —  three  strokes,  this  time,  — 
and  whistles  shrill  from  all  sections  of  the  train, 
doors  slam,  and  the  engineer,  if  he  is  at  his  post  and 
graciously  pleased  to  do  so,  blows  a  warning  and 
starts  —  starts  so  gently  and  easily  that  every  one 
is  enchanted.  If,  however,  the  engineer  is  busy 
talking  to  somebody  else,  he  postpones  starting 
until  the  conversation  is  finished.  And  as  a  sort  of 
parting  benison  the  chief  of  the  station  blows  a 
raucous  horn.  The  crowds  disperse,  the  tumult  and 
the  shouting  die,  and  nothing  more  happens  at  that 
station  until  the  next  train  comes  along  a  few  hours 
hence. 

At  every  station  there  is  a  tiny  drinking  booth, 
legibly  marked  "cantina,"  to  which  it  seems  to  be 
the  regular  thing  for  railway  hands,  traveling  mili- 
tary guards,  passengers,  and  all  to  repair  while  the 
train  waits,  to  purchase  a  thimbleful  of  something, 
—  presumably  aguardiente.  But  although  we  saw 
the  train  hands  repeat  this  dose  at  almost  every 
station  on  the  way  to  Granada  we  could  not  dis- 


GRANADA  77 

cover  that  it  produced  the  slightest  intoxication. 
Indeed,  I  do  not  now  recall  that  I  saw  a  single 
drunken  man  in  all  our  journey  through  Spain, 
unless  a  noisy  fellow  outside  Segovia  could  be  set 
down  as  such,  —  and  I  incline  to  believe  he  was 
demented.  Generally  speaking,  the  Spaniard  is 
temperate. 

Bobadilla  is  nothing  but  a  great  railway  junction, 
and  a  busy  one.  It  boasted,  as  we  discovered,  two 
sets  of  station  buildings  on  either  side  of  a  network 
of  tracks,  which  were  to  be  crossed  by  means  of  a 
subway.  On  the  farther  side  lay  our  train  for 
Granada,  and  true  to  his  word  the  mozo  had  de- 
posited every  article  we  had  intrusted  to  him  in  a 
proper  compartment,  with  the  important  exception 
that  it  was  marked  for  senoras  solas.  The  presence 
of  one  mere  man  in  that  holy  of  holies  was  evidently 
not  to  be  tolerated  by  the  obdurate  conductor,  even 
when  assured  by  the  senoras  that  they  did  n't  in  the 
least  object,  —  and  for  the  second  time  that  day 
I  had  an  illustration  of  the  sanctity  of  the  notice 
"  Ladies  Only."  I  relate  this  simply  to  show  the 
care  that  is  commonly  taken  to  make  sure  that 
unescorted  women  shall  have  every  reasonable 
comfort  when  traveling  by  rail. 

Just  as  in  the  morning  we  had  crossed  from  one 
fertile  plain  to  another  by  threading  steep  mountain 
valleys,  so  again  in  the  afternoon  did  we  the  like, 
our  train  climbing  patiently  out  of  the  levels  around 
Bobadilla  into  an  inspiringly  rugged,  rocky  country 


78  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

given  over  to  pasturage  and  olive  orchards,  until 
at  last  it  had  gained  the  heights  and  descended 
by  easier  grades  to  the  broad  and  famous  vega  of 
Granada,  — a  tract  which,  for  breadth  and  fertility, 
far  surpassed  anything  we  had  yet  seen.  The  climb 
through  the  mountains  was  interesting,  —  too 
much  so  to  make  us  regret  the  painful  slowness  of 
the  train.  Before  we  had  left  the  pleasanter  valleys 
behind,  the  landscape  was  brightened  by  hundreds 
of  fruit  trees  in  full  bloom,  blushing  pink  amid  the 
green  of  the  fields,  or  royally  purple  against  the 
grays  of  upland  boulders.  Owing  to  the  height  to  be 
scaled,  the  railway  made  immense  circles  around 
the  sides  of  a  deep  valley,  always  higher  and  higher, 
and  seemingly  pivoting  on  an  isolated  rock  in  the 
centre  of  the  basin  which  constantly  changed  its 
rugged  shape. 

In  due  time,  having  reached  a  sufficient  altitude, 
the  train  branched  off  into  the  heart  of  the  moun- 
tains, through  a  district  which  the  Baedeker  de- 
scribed as  "  savage."  It  was  not  especially  so,  how- 
ever, for  the  gray-green  of  the  olives  relieved  the 
prospect  of  utter  barrenness.  The  fields  were  hope- 
lessly rocky,  however,  and  the  melancholy  rivers 
that  we  crossed  lay  at  dizzy  depths  below  the 
clanking,  clattering  trestles.  There  were  not  nearly 
as  many  flowers  as  we  had  seen  on  the  road  to 
Ronda,  nor  were  the  gorges  as  impressive. 

The  stations  which  we  passed,  however,  bore 
names  redolent  of  a  stormy  past,  —  names  that 


GRANADA  79 

Irving's  tales  of  Granada  had  made  familiar  from 
childhood.  But  they  were  peaceful  enough  now, 
and  no  clattering  horseman  spurred  his  way  through 
narrow  streets  or  across  the  plains  with  tidings  of 
good  or  ill  to  Christian  or  to  Moor.  The  platforms 
were  invariably  crowded  with  idle  onlookers  of 
both  sexes  and  all  ages,  but  all  of  one  condition  — 
poor.  Women  stood  gazing  at  the  cars,  their  babies 
slung  in  some  wonderful  manner  in  their  shawls. 
Children  wandered  up  and  down  the  platforms, 
crying  cakes  and  oranges  for  sale.  Sharp-voiced 
maids  shrilled  their  calls  of  water  or  goat's  milk  for 
the  thirsty.  Ragged  boys  pattered  up  and  down 
with  aguardiente  in  bottles.  The  air  at  every  sta- 
tion was  resonant  with  manifold  cries,  none  musical, 
and  all  monotonous.  "Quien  quiere  agua?" — 
"Who  wants  water?" — "Quien  quiere  leche?" 
"  Naranjas ! "  It  was  Babel,  surely,  but  without  con- 
fusion of  tongues.  Here  for  the  first  time  we  came 
upon  the  commendable  custom  of  announcing,  not 
only  the  name  of  the  station,  but  also  the  length  of 
time  that  the  train  was  to  stop.-  "Antiquera- 
a-a-a!  Cinco  minutos!"  thus  considerately  in- 
forming the  passengers  just  how  much  time  was 
available  for  the  pleasures  of  the  cantina,  or  for 
another  smoke  on  the  platform,  strolling  up  and 
down. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  we  passed  the 
last  of  the  mountains  of  Loja  and  made  a  rapid 
descent  to  the  vega  of  Granada.  It  was  a  smiling 


8o  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

plain,  fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord,  dotted  with 
villas,  pleasant  with  trees,  already  green  with  the 
growing  crops,  in  striking  contrast  with  the  rich 
chocolate-red  of  the  soil.  Down  through  its  midst 
wandered  the  silver  thread  of  the  river  Genii,  glit- 
tering in  the  afternoon  sun,  while  beyond  to  the 
eastward,  sharp  and  keen  as  razor-edges  against  the 
gathering  dusk  of  the  blue,  ran  the  pure  white 
ranks  of  the  Sierras.  No  sky  could  be  bluer;  no 
snow  whiter. 

It  was  seemingly  at  the  very  feet  of  these  impos- 
ing peaks  that  our  train  came  to  a  halt  amidst  a 
general  clamor  and  impetuous  assault  of  porters 
and  hotel  men.  Almost  without  effort  on  our  part 
we  were  borne  bodily  from  the  car,  bag  and  bag- 
gage, gasping  out  the  name  of  our  hotel  and  vainly 
clutching  at  the  passing  throng  to  stay  our  headlong 
career;  and  ultimately  we  were  cast  precipitately 
into  a  rickety  landau  and  whirled  away  from  the 
station  over  a  surprisingly  bad  road  lined  with  plane 
trees,  toward  the  city.  As  usual,  the  station  lay  far 
outside,  and  —  equally  as  usual  —  the  road  to  it 
was  rutty,  dusty,  and  unpaved.  As  we  bumped  our 
headlong  way  into  town,  we  were  too  much  occupied 
in  holding  on  to  take  in  the  full  grandeur  of  the 
view,  or  the  beauty  of  the  city's  situation.  We  had 
a  dusty  notion  of  an  impending  mass  of  great, 
white  summits,  rising  above  a  tumultuous  sea  of 
tiled  roofs,  from  which  also  arose  the  towers  of 
many  churches  and  the  enormous  bulk  of  a  black 


GRANADA  81 

cathedral.  Just  beyond  the  mass  of  dull-colored 
buildings  we  could  descry  a  lofty  and  heavily 
wooded  hill  crowned  with  tawny  towers.  But  the 
swaying  of  the  carriage  as  it  jolted  rapidly  over  rut 
and  tramway  impaired  this  first  view  of  the  city 
and  the  Alhambra  of  our  dreams.  Ultimately  we 
passed  within  the  buildings  of  the  city,  rattled  at  a 
smart  pace  up  the  street  of  the  Gran  Capitan  and 
the  street  of  the  Catholic  kings,  —  no  city  in  Spain 
is  complete  without  these  two,  —  and  turned  ab- 
ruptly around  a  corner,  through  an  arch,  and  up 
into  a  spacious  park  of  elms.  Then,  and  not  until 
then,  did  our  horses  slow  to  a  sober  walk,  and  we 
sank  back  on  the  cushions  to  drink  in  what  lay 
before  and  above  us. 

It  was  certainly  very  steep,  this  climb  out  of 
Granada  to  the  Moorish  citadel  on  the  overhanging 
height,  but  the  instant  the  carriage  had  crawled  up 
through  the  yellow  gateway  in  the  lower  wall,  the 
surroundings  became  indescribably  beautiful.  The 
road  ascended  through  a  dense  forest  of  elms  now 
just  in  bud.  Shady  footpaths  meandered  here  and 
there  through  the  trees.  Torrents  of  green  and 
turbid  water  dashed  singing  by  from  the  heights 
above,  their  color  bespeaking  their  origin  in  the 
eternal  snows.  Birds  twittered  their  vespers  in  the 
treetops  and  were  answered  from  far  below  by 
the  faint  melody  of  the  cathedral  bells.  Through 
the  delicate  tracery  of  the  branches,  not  yet  in  full 
leaf,  we  could  see  the  outlines  of  ancient  wall  and 


82  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

massive  tower,  ruddy  in  the  sunset,  high  above  us. 
After  the  heat  and  bustle  of  the  long  day  on  the 
train,  this  secluded  park,  with  its  waters  and  its 
quiet,  was  soothing  and  delightful.  Let  it  be  ad- 
mitted that  this  approach  to  the  Alhambra  was 
distinctly  British,  that  the  trees  were  English  elms, 
and  planted  by  that  excellent  Briton  who  subse- 
quently won  fame  as  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  It 
surely  need  disappoint  no  one  on  that  account,  and 
there  are  few  more  ideally  charming  spots  in  all 
Spain  than  this  glorious  park  of  trees. 

The  road  turned  and  twisted  its  way  up  the  hill- 
side, and  at  last  the  toiling  horses  passed  under  the 
great  main  entrance  of  the  faubourg  of  the  Alham- 
bra. We  had  left  the  great  main  Gate  of  Justice  far 
below,  its  sculptured  hand  and  key  on  successive 
arches  still  bearing  mute  witness  to  the  legend  of  the 
castle's  supposed  impregnability,  and  now  were  in 
the  little  hamlet  that  makes  of  the  summit  almost 
a  distinct  town.  Within  the  walls  a  small  collection 
of  buildings  has  been  permitted  to  grow  up,  —  a 
few  houses,  a  small  hotel  or  two,  and  some  shops 
devoted  mainly  to  the  sale  of  photographs  and 
antiques.  These  dwellings  and  stores,  together 
with  the  palace  of  the  Alhambra  and  the  ruined 
palace  of  Charles  V,  constitute  what  amounts  to  a 
separate  upper  ward  of  Granada.  On  nearly  every 
side  the  hill  is  too  steep  to  be  accessible  and  it  is 
only  by  long  windings  that  the  road  scales  it  on  the 
west  and  south.  In  reality  it  is  a  sort  of  double  hill, 


THE  ALHAMBRA,  FROM   THE  ALBAICIN 


GRANADA  83 

its  two  spurs  separated  by  the  wooded  ravine  where 
Wellington  planted  his  elms ;  and  the  lower  of  these 
hills  contains  other  buildings  as  well  as  the  more 
celebrated  of  the  hotels.  A  squeaking  tram-line  has 
managed  to  scale  this  lower  eminence.  But  the  real 
precinct  of  the  Alhambra,  walled  with  ruddy  stone, 
remains  a  tiny  city  by  itself.  There  you  are  in  a 
realm  of  your  own.  The  city  of  Granada  lies  at  your 
feet,  its  noises  subdued  to  a  confused,  murmurous 
hum.  Its  squalor  and  dust  are  forgotten.  To  see 
it  at  all  you  must  go  to  the  brink  of  the  precipice 
and  peer  down  into  it.  One  might  abide  long  in  the 
Alhambra  without  caring  to  visit  the  greater  city 
below  at  all,  or  even  thinking  of  it,  isolated  as  one  is 
from  it  by  that  abyss  filled  with  secular  elms. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  we  were  to  live  for  a 
space  in  the  Alhambra,  —  meaning  thereby  the 
walled  precinct  which  covers  the  entire  summit  of 
the  loftier  hill,  but  not  the  famous  palace  of  that 
name  which  most  of  us  commonly  associate  with 
the  word.  We  had  found  a  tiny  hotel,  in  a  tiny 
street,  with  a  tiny  garden  behind  it  in  which  a  foun- 
tain was  splashing.  Just  over  its  garden  walls  we 
could  see  the  tops  of  the  elm  trees,  harborage  of 
numerous  nightingales.  Save  for  the  birds,  the 
5  plash  of  waters,  and  the  rumble  of  an  occasional 
cart  through  our  narrow  street,  all  was  quietness 
and  peace.  A  scant  two  hundred  yards  divided  us 
from  the  obscure  gateways  of  the  Alhambra  palace 
—  and  fairyland. 


84  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

Nevertheless,  although  Granada  was  not  essen- 
tial to  our  happiness,  we  did  go  down  through  the 
forest  to  the  city, —  not  once  only,  but  many  times. 
And  while  we  had  at  first  voted  it  a  stupid  and 
thoroughly  unattractive  town  which  must  always 
suffer  severely  from  the  glaring  contrast  with  the 
enchantments  of  the  Alhambra  overhead,  we  later 
found  many  byways  that  we  learned  to  love  after 
their  own  fashion,  albeit  nothing  we  found  among 
them  ever  rivaled  the  palace  of  the  Moors,  or  that 
glorious  grove  on  the  slanting  hillside. 

Most  of  Granada  is  still  squalid  and  beggarly. 
Its  streets,  like  all  Moorish  city  ways,  are  narrow 
and  tortuous  where  they  have  been  allowed  to 
remain  in  their  native  state.  But  the  streets  of 
more  modern  aspect,  like  that  of  the  Catholic  kings 
and  the  spacious  alameda,  or  boulevard,  that  leads 
down  to  the  river  with  its  shady  promenades  and 
paseos,  are  fairly  agreeable,  and  here  and  there  even 
pretentious.  It  was  down  by  the  river-side  that  we 
wandered  first,  on  a  balmy  Sunday,  to  see  the  cere- 
mony of  swearing  in  the  new  recruits.  All  the  world 
and  his  relations  were  there,  redolent  of  much  garlic, 
but  good-tempered  and  anxious  we  should  see  all 
that  went  on,  —  even  offering  to  raise  the  ladies  in 
sturdy  arms  that  they  might  overlook  the  heads  of 
the  gathered  throng ! 

The  new  soldiers  were  mustered  in  the  broad 
paseo,  bareheaded  and  solemn  with  the  sense  of 
weighty  responsibility.  All  around  stood  veteran 


GRANADA  85 

troops,  cavalry,  infantry,  artillery.  Before  them 
had  been  erected  an  open-air  altar,  where,  as  we 
drew  near,  the  archbishop  or  some  other  lofty  dig- 
nitary of  the  Church  was  celebrating  mass.  There 
was  no  music  save  for  the  occasional  blare  of 
bugles,  thin  and  clear,  and  at  that  distance  we 
could  hear  not  a  word  of  the  service.  But  when 
Holy  Church  had  completed  her  ministrations,  the 
bugles  blew  again  and  the  recruits  marched  in  a 
hasty  single  file  under  the  extended  banner,  —  per- 
haps a  sort  of  modern  sub  jugum  like  that  of  the 
Roman  captives,  —  kissing  the  hem  of  the  flag  and 
thus  enrolling  themselves  as  true  and  loyal  soldiers 
of  His  Most  Catholic  Majesty  Alfonso  XIII.  Then 
all  the  crowd  broke  up  with  decorous  Sunday  hilar- 
ity, and  wandered  homeward  through  the  shady 
alameda,  while  the  roadway  on  either  side  of  the 
promenade  was  filled  with  a  marching  host,  with 
prancing  horses,  and  with  rumbling  gun-carriages 
dashing  madly  up  the  grade. 

All  this  formed  a  scene  of  much  gayety  and 
animation,  with  much  brilliant  coloring  of  uniforms 
to  offset  the  sombreness  of  the  mantillas  with  which 
the  women  universally  draped  their  heads.  And 
yet,  despite  all  this  animation  and  bustle  and 
movement,  our  first  impression  of  Granada  was 
disappointing.  Even  the  older  streets  lacked  in  pic- 
turesqueness,  and  the  new  ones,  furbished  up  as  they 
were  to  make  a  modern  appearance,  were  as  unwel- 
come as  tasteless  adornment  on  a  withered  crone. 


86  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

I  think  we  found  the  cathedral  rather  disappoint- 
ing, too.  It  was  our  first  great  Spanish  church,  for 
that  of  Ronda  was  but  a  little  one.  It  possessed  the 
usual  characteristic  of  all  the  cathedrals  of  Spain,  — 
impressive  bulk,  —  but  it  lacked  to  an  uncommon 
degree  inspiration  and  grace.  It  was  of  irregular 
shape,  and,  as  is  common  in  Spain,  it  made  no  out- 
ward pretense  to  being  cruciform,  that  being  left 
entirely  to  the  internal  arrangement  of  aisles  and 
side-chapels,  and  transepts  that  did  not  project. 
It  was  vast  and  dim  within,  for  in  Spain  religion 
seems  to  demand  a  degree  of  gloom,  and  the  few 
really  light  and  cheerful  churches  one  meets  gener- 
ally produce  an  effect  of  surprise.  That  of  Granada 
is  certainly  not  one  of  those.  Almost  nothing  could 
be  seen,  even  on  a  sunny  afternoon,  without  the 
sacristan's  tapers. 

It  was  here  for  the  first  time  that  we  came  upon 
the  characteristic  internal  arrangement  which  it 
will  be  well  to  speak  of  at  some  length,  because 
almost  every  great  church  in  the  country  possesses 
it,  and  because  it  affords  one  of  the  few  instances  in 
which  the  Spanish  architects  and  churchmen  seem 
to  have  diverged  from  accepted  models  and  to  have 
devised  a  style  of  their  own.  With  very  rare  excep- 
tions, the  cathedrals  of  Spain  are  really  great  shel- 
tering edifices,  of  intricate  design  and  vast  elabora- 
tion of  detail,  inclosing  a  sort  of  secondary  church 
within.  The  latter  consists  of  two  parts,  —  the 
choir  (coro),  an  oblong  space  walled  off  from  the 


GRANADA  87 

nave  and  aisles,  open  only  on  the  side  toward 
the  high  altar ;  and  the  capilla  mayor,  containing  the 
high  altar  itself,  walled  off  on  every  side  from  the 
apse,  but  open  toward  the  choir.  These  two  in- 
closures,  whose  walls  are  often  elaborately  adorned 
with  sculpture,  face  each  other  in  the  midst  of  the 
church,  generally  on  either  side  of  the  crossing,  and 
are  connected  by  a  railed  passageway  for  the  use  of 
the  officiating  priests.  The  worshipers  congregate 
in  the  space  between  the  two,  close  against  the  rail- 
ings, and  this  constitutes  the  real  church.  To  light 
it  adequately,  the  Spanish  have  devised  one  other 
characteristic  feature,  the  cimborio,  or  lantern,  often 
a  thing  of  great  beauty,  surmounting  the  crossing  in 
a  sort  of  low  dome,  or  tower,  filled  with  glass.  The 
obvious  effect  of  all  this  is  to  make  a  church  within 
a  church,  like  the  "portiuncula"  of  Santa  Maria 
degli  Angeli  at  Assisi,  vastly  magnified  and  elabo- 
rated. From  the  architectural  standpoint,  however, 
it  is  a  highly  unfortunate  arrangement,  since  the 
intruding  screens  of  both  choir  and  chapel  break 
into  the  nave  and  apse,  and  thus  cut  off  a  portion 
of  what  should  otherwise  be  a  splendid  vista.  A 
great  oblong  section  is  cut  out  of  the  midst  of  the 
cathedral  by  implanting  there  two  minor  structures 
connected  by  an  isthmus  of  railing.  However,  one 
grows  accustomed  to  it,  as  we  discovered,  and  in 
time  may  even  acquire  a  taste  for  it,  provided  the 
effect  is  not  too  badly  marred  by  the  decoration  of 
the  screens  with  too  many  poor  statues  and  too 


88  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

much  baroque  ornamentation,  —  the  easily  beset- 
ting sin  of  Spanish  architects. 

Such  is  the  general  arrangement  at  Granada ;  and 
the  gloom  of  the  interior,  relieved  only  by  light  fil- 
tered through  ancient  glass,  we  found  to  be  exces- 
sive, making  it  almost  impossible  to  see  anything  of 
the  side-chapels.  A  voluble  but  rapacious  sacristan 
helped  us  to  see  some  of  the  features  there  by  the 
aid  of  a  taper  on  a  long  pole,  —  among  other  things 
two  portraits,  said  to  be  accurate  copies  of  contem- 
porary work,  representing  Ferdinand  and  Isabella. 
These,  with  the  tombs  in  the  royal  chapel  close 
by,  containing  the  bodies  of  Ferdinand,  Isabella, 
Philip  I,  and  Juana  the  Mad,  form  the  chief  lions 
of  the  church. 

As  is  very  common  in  the  Moorish  sections  of 
Spain,  this  cathedral  succeeded  a  mosque,  its 
sacristy  standing  on  the  actual  site  of  the  old  city's 
principal  Mohammedan  shrine.  It  was  to  the  door 
of  that  mosque  that  the  valiant  knight  Del  Pulgar 
affixed  his  scroll  bearing  the  audacious  words  "  Ave 
Maria,"  using  his  dagger  for  a  nail,  when  the  Chris- 
tian host  was  besieging  the  city.  The  mosque  itself 
has,  of  course,  quite  disappeared,  and  in  size  prob- 
ably did  not  compare  with  the  present  Christian 
church. 

Externally,  the  cathedral  cannot  be  said  to  be 
especially  remarkable.  Its  facade  seemed  to  us 
commonplace.  Its  eastern  end  was  semicircular  and 
easily  the  most  notable  feature  as  seen  either  from 


GRANADA  89 

the  main  thoroughfares  or  from  the  heights  above. 
The  incorporation  of  the  sagraria  and  other  adja- 
cent edifices  in  the  mass  of  the  cathedral  tends  to 
give  the  ground  plan  an  amorphous  character,  such 
as  is  common  among  the  Spanish  churches,  even  in 
the  better  examples  of  Spanish  Gothic. 

Our  wanderings  through  the  adjacent  streets  of 
the  city  developed  nothing  save  a  more  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  local  propensity  for  begging, 
which  is  shared  by  nearly  all  the  children  of  the 
southern  cities.  There  was  a  general  dearth  of 
commercial  activity,  save  among  the  hucksters  and 
venders  of  peanuts  along  the  curbstones,  and  the 
shops  seemed  dark  and  unattractive.  The  notable 
exception  was  a  brass-mongery  where  we  spent 
much  of  our  time,  —  for  Granada  is  famous  for  its 
brass.  Nowhere  else  does  one  find  it  of  such  a  color, 
—  an  unbrazen,  almost  silvery  sheen,  that  gives 
even  to  the  humblest  vessels  an  air  of  distinction. 
It  was  here  that  we  first  came  upon  the  Spanish 
barber's  basin,  the  original  of  the  diminutive  brass 
bowls  which  to-day  the  barbers  of  every  Spanish 
town  employ  to  announce  their  trade,  hanging  them 
in  tinkling  pairs  from  their  doorposts.  I  imagine 
that  the  real  basins  are  not  actually  used  to-day, 
except  possibly  in  very  primitive  localities,  save  as 
equivalents  for  the  familiar  barber's  poles  of  other 
lands ;  but  in  days  gone  by  they  were  an  essential 
part  of  the  barber's  equipment  and  one  such  inci- 
dentally achieved  immortality  as  the  helmet  of 


90  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

Mambrino.  In  appearance  they  are  merely  shallow 
basins  of  brass  with  a  wide  and  only  less  shallow 
flange,  out  of  which  a  segment  has  been  cut,  resem- 
bling nothing  so  much  as  a  huge  bite.  Into  this  slot, 
which  is  conveniently  shaped  for  the  purpose,  the 
patient  was  accustomed  to  insert  his  neck,  thus 
bringing  his  face  and  chin  into  convenient  position 
for  laving.  At  least  such  was  the  idea  given  us  in 
pantomime  by  the  industrious  little  man  who  pre- 
sided over  the  shop  and  its  fascinating  wares. 

By  far  the  most  interesting  part  of  lower  Gra- 
nada, however,  we  found  to  be  the  narrow  section 
that  extends  up  the  valley  of  the  Darro  —  a  tiny 
stream  that  forces  its  way  down  between  the  hill  of 
the  Alhambra  and  the  loftier  heights  to  the  north, 
through  a  very  deep  and  constricted  ravine.  Its 
northern  side  is  the  gypsy  district,  and  below, 
where  the  ravine  broadens  to  the  vega,  lies  the 
oldest  part  of  Granada,  still  known  as  the  Albaicin. 
There  was  not  much  water  flowing  through  the 
channel  of  the  Darro;  but,  thanks  to  the  melting 
snows  above,  we  were  assured  it  was  never  dry,  and 
its  waters  still  serve  the  peasantry  for  irrigation, 
although  it  is  not  probable  that  much  gold  is  now 
winnowed  from  its  sands.  It  is  a  river  as  mysterious 
as  the  fabled  Styx,  for  when  it  reaches  the  city 
proper  it  disappears  from  view  into  a  sort  of  sub- 
terranean canal  and  thus  proceeds  through  Granada 
to  join  the  Genii  on  the  farther  side  of  the  town. 
But  just  under  the  hill  of  the  Alhambra  it  is  a 


GRANADA  91 

brawling  rivulet  in  a  gravelly  bed,  where  kneeling 
women  in  gay-colored  garb  are  continually  washing 
their  linen.  Here  we  found  it  pleasant  to  wander  on 
warm  spring  mornings,  up  the  winding  and  shaded 
paths  on  the  Alhambra  side,  under  the  coolness  of 
the  cliffs,  meeting  long  trains  of  donkeys  laden  with 
water  casks  as  they  came  dripping  down  from  the 
many  hydrants  by  the  wayside.  Gardens  were 
there,  and  many  a  pleasant  tree,  beneath  which 
were  cool  stone  benches  where  one  might  sit  at  ease, 
overlooking  the  rippling  river  and  the  opposite  hill- 
side dotted  with  the  mouths  of  its  gypsy  caves. 

To  the  latter  we  did  not  go.  Gypsy  life  in  Gra- 
nada to-day  is  a  very  different  matter  from  what  it 
must  have  been  in  George  Borrow's  time,  —  little 
short  of  civilized,  in  fact.  At  any  rate,  those  who 
daily  returned  from  explorations  of  the  gypsy 
haunts  told  tales  of  neatly  whitewashed  caves 
lighted  by  electricity!  Gypsy  dancing,  however, 
unquestionably  remains  one  of  the  characteristic 
sights  of  Granada,  and  commands  a  very  consider- 
able revenue  from  the  curious.  Gypsy  "princes," 
so  called,  in  the  traditional  and  picturesque  garb 
of  their  tattered  royalty,  occasionally  capered 
nimbly  in  the  lanes  of  the  Alhambra  while  we  were 
there,  and  besought  us  to  buy  their  pictures.  But 
somehow  it  all  had  too  much  the  appearance  of 
being  a  show,  instead  of  an  unstudied  state  of  na- 
ture, and  as  such  it  lacked  convincing  qualities.  It 
was  partly  this  feeling  that  the  gypsy  life  of  the  day 


92  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

was  more  or  less  artificial  and  theatrical,  coupled,  I 
suspect,  with  a  desire  not  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  any 
further  begging,  that  held  us  aloof  from  the  caves 
of  the  Romany.  For  the  begging  of  the  Granada 
gypsies  is  notoriously  audacious  and  persistent,  and 
forms  the  great  drawback  to  venturing  among  the 
burrows  of  the  race.  We  contented  ourselves,  per- 
haps to  our  loss,  with  looking  down  into  it  from  the 
lofty  hill  that  overhangs  the  ravine  of  the  Darro,  or 
across  at  it  from  the  shady  path  that  follows  that 
winding  stream  up  into  the  vale  between  the  hills. 

Of  all  our  Granada  memories  unconnected  with 
the  Alhambra  itself  and  the  still  loftier  heights 
above  it,  none  surpasses  that  of  our  wanderings 
through  the  district  of  the  Albaicin  and  up  the 
Darro  with  its  little  villas  and  gardens.  It  was  there 
that  we  spent  many  careless  hours  idly  gazing  at 
the  pleasant  scene,  the  rugged  hills,  the  wooded 
copses,  the  women  singing  over  their  heaps  of  linen 
by  the  river's  brim,  the  camels,  —  for  there  are 
camels  in  Granada, — being  laden  with  gravel,  in  the 
river  bed,  and  all  the  unstudied  life  of  the  peasantry 
as  it  flowed  by  us  on  the  path,  always  with  a  pleas- 
ant nod  or  smile  and  never  a  word  of  sorrow.  Beam- 
ing men  rode  past  on  their  donkeys,  sometimes  eat- 
ing placidly,  as  they  rode,  from  their  little  bowls  of 
pucherOj  —  the  latter  a  national  stew  made  of  the 
omnipresent  chick-peas  which  De  Amicis  thought 
"must  be  ripened  in  heaven."  In  the  little  shops  by 
the  wayside  in  the  more  populous  portions  of  the 


GRANADA  93 

Albaicin,  women  were  weaving  elaborate  mantillas 
of  white  or  black.  Overhead,  out  of  a  wall  of  green- 
ery, its  trees  feathery  in  the  springtime,  soared  the 
ruddy  walls  and  towers  of  the  Alhambra.  Hos- 
pitable women,  as  we  passed,  begged  us  to  enter 
and  enjoy  the  fragrance  of  their  gardens,  gathering 
nosegays  for  us,  and  —  wonder  of  wonders !  —  pro- 
testing as  they  accepted  our  trifling  coppers  in  ex- 
change. 

Yet  even  the  Albaicin,  old  as  it  was  and  asso- 
ciated with  the  earliest  days  of  the  Moorish  occu- 
pation, proved  rather  bare  of  architectural  interest. 
There  were  a  few  old  churches  to  be  seen,  with 
mossy  belfries  and  facades  fantastically  adorned 
with  carving  in  stone,  —  nowhere  of  great  distinc- 
tion. More  interesting  by  far  were  the  little  bridges 
that  here  and  there  sprang  across  the  Darro  at  a 
bound,  and  above  all  the  remnant  of  a  Moorish 
arch  that  marked  the  great  entrance  of  the  Moors  to 
their  citadel  above.  Apart  from  these  the  charm  of 
the  Albaicin  lay  in  its  villas  and  its  people,  and  even 
these  would  hardly  serve  as  attractions  in  and  of 
themselves.  It  is  always  the  magnificence  of  the 
Alhambra  that  saves  Granada  from  oblivion  and 
utter  decay.  Without  these  she  would  languish,  — 
a  hungry  town,  proud  of  her  past,  careless  of  the 
present,  slothful  in  business,*and  much  given  to  put- 
ting off  until  manana  what  would  much  better  be 
done  to-day. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  ALHAMBRA 

To  sit  down  with  the  deliberate  intention  of  at- 
tempting a  description  of  the  Alhambra  is 
discouraging.  No  better  evidence  of  the  indescrib- 
able character  of  the  palace  should  be  needed  than 
the  fact  that  it  never  yet  has  been  adequately  de- 
scribed, although  much  has  been  written  about 
it.  The  world  is  flooded  with  travelers'  tales  of 
its  ethereal  magnificence.  Close  students  have  ex- 
pended immense  pains  on  its  manifold  intricacies 
of  detail.  Irving  has  woven  into  a  matchless  tapes- 
try the  scores  of  legends  that  cluster  about  its  walls 
and  courts.  Histories  of  the  Moors  and  of  Granada 
have  sought  to  make  the  world  familiar  with  its 
traditions  of  war  and  peace.  And  yet  the  Alhambra 
as  an  actuality  defies  them  all  to  give  in  words  the 
true  idea  of  its  almost  unearthly  beauty,  its  marvel- 
ous lightness  and  fragility,  and  its  unfading,  undy- 
ing charm.  Never  did  any  building  give  less  promise 
of  permanence,  yet  few  have  come  through  as  many 
centuries  so  perfect  and  unharmed.  It  is  almost  like 
that  curious  survival  of  the  ancient  glassware  that 
one  finds  dug  up  from  the  ruins  of  antiquity,  unshat- 
tered  and  with  iridescence  undimmed,  seemingly 


THE  ALHAMBRA  95 

the  most  fragile  of  all  human  handicraft,  yet  out- 
lasting the  massive  temples  and  houses  it  adorned. 

Much  of  the  Alhambra  to-day  is  as  perfect  as  in 
the  days  of  its  kingly  occupants.  Restoration  has 
been  sparing  and  cautious.  There  is  none  of  that 
garish  gaudiness  that  so  sadly  mars  the  rejuvenated 
alcazar  at  Seville,  but  everywhere  prevails  the  soft 
coloring  of  the  olden  time  as  well  as  its  incompar- 
able grace  and  lightness,  each  due  in  large  part  to 
the  fact  that  so  much  is  the  original  work  untouched 
by  modern  hands.  To  add  to  the  existing  mass  of 
literature  on  this  fairy  palace  might  well  seem  a 
supererogatory  work,  and  at  least  one  to  be  under- 
taken with  hesitancy.  For  the  palace  must  be  seen. 
Photography  fails  almost  as  signally  as  word- 
painting,  and  even  the  brush  of  the  artist  cannot 
hope  to  reproduce  more  than  a  tithe  of  the  effects 
that  crowd  upon  the  eye.  Investigating  the  details 
with  undue  minuteness  spoils  the  charm  and 
reduces  the  Alhambra  to  a  scientific  problem  too 
much  concerned  with  individual  members  of  the 
decorative  scheme,  which,  however  beautiful  they 
may  be  in  themselves,  are  best  considered  as  parts 
of  one  stupendous  whole. 

It  is  certain  that  the  Alhambra  could  not  be 
reproduced  to-day  with  anything  like  success,  how- 
ever accurately  architects  and  builders  might  copy 
it  to  the  minutest  feature.  Attempts  to  simulate  it, 
or  to  adapt  Moorish  architecture  to  modern  con- 
ditions, have  resulted  uniformly  in  abominations 


96  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

which  show  that  the  Christian  has  not  been  vouch- 
safed the  Moor's  celestial  vision.  The  former's  work 
is  dry  and  uninspired,  and  even  the  attempt  to  fur- 
bish up  the  great  alcazar  of  Seville  is  a  lamentable 
failure.  The  Alhambra  is  so  loaded  down  with 
adornment  that  the  visitor  cannot  but  wonder  that 
it  succeeds,  —  but  succeed  it  certainly  does,  and  the 
secret  must  be  that  the  Alhambra,  more  than  almost 
any  other  ancient  building,  has  an  undying  soul  of 
its  own  which  age  cannot  wither  nor  custom  stale, 
although  such  a  building  springing  up  to-day  would 
instantly  be  voted  a  wearisome  infinitude  of  variety. 
The  name  Alhambra,  as  intimated  hitherto,  is 
by  no  means  to  be  taken  as  applicable  to  a  single 
building,  however  much  our  long  usage  has  led  us 
to  associate  it  exclusively  with  the  palace  of  the 
Moorish  kings.  The  word  signifies  as  well  the  whole 
fortification  of  the  hilltop  which  the  Moors  made 
their  citadel  and  within  which  they  reared  their 
regal  residence.  It  is  a  spacious  hilltop,  broad  and 
nearly  flat,  protected  on  almost  every  side  by 
natural  moats  and  fosses  in  the  form  of  abrupt 
ravines,  and  further  fortified  by  massive  walls  of 
reddish  stone,  the  color  of  which  gives  the  place  its 
name,  —  the  "red  palace."  The  space  within  the 
walls  is  not  more  than  half  built  upon.  Its  eastern 
end  is  a  broad,  open  field.  The  northern  and  western 
portions  are  occupied  by  the  palace  and  its  gardens 
and  the  diminutive  hamlet  of  modern  buildings  that 
has  been  allowed  to  take  root  there.  Of  the  multi- 


THE  ALHAMBRA  97 

tude  of  towers  that  once  broke  the  undulating  line 
of  the  wall  at  regular  intervals,  many  remain  in 
almost  perfect  preservation.  From  their  feet  the 
cliff  drops  away  sheer  on  every  side,  and  most  pre- 
cipitously of  all  on  the  side  next  the  modern  city. 
It  is  small  wonder  that,  in  those  days  of  meagre 
artillery,  the  Moors  deemed  their  fortress  impreg- 
nable, and  graved  on  the  successive  arches  of  the 
outer  gates  the  symbolic  hand  and  key,  haughtily 
averring  that  until  the  one  should  grasp  the  other 
the  stronghold  of  their  kings  should  not  fall. 

Our  first  view  of  the  Alhambra,  as  our  carriage 
rattled  through  the  gates  and  up  the  narrow  streets 
of  the  hamlet,  was  disappointing.  Of  the  Moorish 
palace  nothing  whatever  was  to  be  seen,  and  the 
one  prominent  building  was  the  ruined  palace  of 
Charles  V,  blatant  and  obtrusive,  decidedly  the 
greatest  architectural  crime  perpetrated  in  that 
monarch's  name.  In  the  nature  and  coloring  of  its 
stone  it  harmonizes  with  the  rest  of  the  Alhambra, 
but  in  no  other  way.  It  makes  no  pretense  of  fol- 
lowing Moorish  lines,  but  is  frankly  of  the  Renais- 
sance. Down  in  Granada,  as  an  ayuntamiento  or  an 
office  building,  it  would  shine.  Up  in  the  Alhambra 
it  is  as  out  of  place  as  a  power  plant  would  be  on  the 
acropolis  of  Athens.  It  encroaches  on  the  domain 
of  the  Alhambra  palace,  almost  half  of  which  was 
torn  down  to  make  room  for  it,  and  completely 
hides  the  modern  approach  thereto.  It  never  had 
the  slightest  excuse  for  being,  and,  indeed,  it  was 


98  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

never  completed,  —  so  that  its  sole  function  from 
the  first  has  been  that  of  a  blemish,  colossal  and  in- 
escapable, in  close  juxtaposition  to  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  buildings  ever  erected  by  human  hands. 

Having  taken  up  our  quarters  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, —  for  we  had  elected  to  live  in  the  Alhambra 
rather  than  abide  in  the  more  pretentious  hotels 
outside,  —  we  hastened  forth  to  make  immediate 
acquaintance  with  the  palace  and  its  grounds.  The 
entrance  proved  difficult  to  find,  hidden  as  it  was 
behind  Charles  V's  monstrosity,  and  indeed  the 
very  existence  of  the  ancient  palace  would  never  be 
suspected  from  its  exterior.  It  certainly  is  not  fair 
to  outward  view.  Rather  does  it  resemble  a  very 
ordinary  shed  or  stable.  It  is  long  and  low,  tile- 
roofed,  and  few  indeed  are  the  points  whence  its 
walls  are  visible  at  all  from  without.  Tradition  says 
that  this  unattractive  exterior  was  deliberately  en- 
couraged as  an  offset  to  the  luxuriant  magnificence 
within,  the  Moors  entertaining,  in  common  with 
most  other  primitive  peoples,  the  notion  that  it  was 
dangerous  to  appear  too  prosperous  outwardly,  lest 
the  wrath  of  Heaven  be  visited  upon  the  ostenta- 
tious. Therefore  the  Alhambra  was  made  as  plain 
as  might  be  externally  to  avert  the  evil  eye;  but 
within  the  Arab  artisans  wrought  magic,  appar- 
ently held  in  no  fear  that  the  knowledge  of  Allah 
could  by  any  chance  pierce  this  unpretentious  and 
rather  hypocritical  roof-tree,  or  view  with  any  such 
disapproval  the  glittering  mosaics,  iridescent  tiles, 


THE  ALHAMBRA  99 

graceful  arabesques,  and  pendant  stalactites  which 
adorned  the  inner  chambers. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  we  finally  discovered 
the  humble  door  which  to-day  gives  access  to  the 
royal  abode,  and  no  time  remained  for  an  inspection 
of  the  maze  of  rooms  and  courts  within.  But  it  was 
the  time  of  all  times  to  wander  through  the  fragrant 
gardens  outside,  snuffing  the  sweetness  of  the  box 
hedges  which  lined  the  path  to  the  westernmost 
tower,  —  the  Torre  de  la  Vela,  —  whence  one  may 
best  see  the  glories  of  the  sunset.  A  young  man  of 
the  town  who  was  loitering  at  the  foot  of  the  tower 
assured  us  in  careful  English  that  there  was  yet  time 
to  ascend,  and  an  aged  woman  with  a  Roman  lamp 
led  us  by  a  winding  stair  through  intense  darkness 
to  the  summit. 

Over  our  heads  hung  a  great  bell,  which  is  used 
during  the  night  to  regulate  the  hours  for  drawing 
on  the  Darro  for  irrigation ;  and  a  pretty  local  cus- 
tom further  permits  the  tolling  of  it  on  certain  fes- 
tivals by  the  maidens  of  Granada  in  the  hope  of 
attracting  thereby  proper  husbands  within  the  year. 

At  our  feet,  but  far  below,  lay  Granada  spread 
out  like  a  map,  her  houses  huddling  close  around 
the  base  of  the  hill  in  a  great  lunette  of  gray ;  while 
beyond  and  stretching  away  to  illimitable  dis- 
tances was  the  vega,  a  smiling  meadow,  purple  in 
the  evening  light  and  traversed  by  a  thread  of  gold 
which  we  knew  for  the  Genii.  The  snow  mountains 
to, the  east  glimmered  coldly  against  the  approach- 


ioo  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

ing  darkness,  but  the  jagged  western  peaks  were 
glorious  bulks  in  the  warmth  of  a  crimson  twilight. 
Surely  nowhere  are  the  sunsets  finer  than  from  the 
Torre  de  la  Vela ! 

Close  by  the  foot  of  the  tower  and  at  intervals 
along  the  walls  that  mark  this  verge  of  the  precipice 
there  are  formal  gardens  whose  walks  are  bordered 
with  the  inevitable  myrtle  and  box,  and  whose  beds 
are  aglow  with  iris  and  roses.  Through  these  we 
could  see  wandering  many  people  of  the  town  as  well 
as  a  multitude  of  foreigners,  all  quietly  enjoying  the 
coolness  of  the  air  and  the  brilliance  of  the  sunset 
sky.  But  one  by  one  the  colors  faded,  the  glow 
departing  last  of  all  from  the  snow-fields  of  the 
mighty  Sierras;  and  one  by  one  the  stars  lighted 
themselves  in  the  deepening  blue  of  the  heavens. 
The  forms  of  the  distant  mountains  faded  out  of 
view  and  left  Granada  in  the  midst  of  a  shoreless 
sea  of  plain.  The  cold  of  the  Spanish  night  made 
itself  felt,  and  silence,  broken  only  by  the  murmur- 
ing of  the  wayside  streams,  settled  down  on  the 
Alhambra. 

Morning  found  us  early  at  the  gateway  of  the 
palace.  Visitors  are  freely  welcome,  and  there  is  no 
admission  charge  of  any  sort,  the  one  requirement 
being  that  on  the  first  visit  one  shall  be  accom- 
panied by  an  official  guide.  Subsequently  no  guide 
is  required,  and  none  ever  offered  his  services  after 
our  first  appearance.  Just  how  the  others  knew  that 
we  were  not  novices  I  was  never  able  to  discover. 


WINDOW   IN  THE   ALHAMBRA 
(Showing  azulejos  and  stucco  work) 


THE  ALHAMBRA  101 

We  set  out  with  a  dapper  individual  through  an 
echoing  corridor  and  out  into  the  great  Court  of  the 
Myrtles,  bathed  in  sunshine.  The  perfection  of  the 
architecture,  and  the  reflections  in  the  placid  mirror 
of  the  fishpond,  framing  a  vision  of  inverted  arches, 
invited  photography,  and  I  unslung  my  camera 
preparatory  to  taking  my  first  shot,  when  the  guide 
interposed.  He  said  we  must  get  a  permission. 
What  happened  to  us  I  never  knew,  but  I  never 
succeeded  in  getting  any  formal  permission  at  all. 
Instead,  the  first  guide  disappeared  and  a  second 
took  his  place  as  if  by  magic,  a  much  better  one 
who  had  no  absurd  scruples  about  photography, 
and  we  learned  to  love  him  well.  He  unburdened 
himself  of  a  great  deal  of  honest  information  in 
wonderfully  intelligible  Spanish,  manfully  abstain- 
ing from  the  traditional  attempt  to  show  us  blood- 
stains in  the  Hall  of  the  Abencerrages,  and  sensibly 
remarking  that  the  marks  in  the  fountain  were  not 
blood  at  all. 

When  Washington  Irving  came  to  Granada  in  the 
early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century,  he  was  as- 
signed a  room  in  a  wing  of  the  palace  itself,  which 
was  then  in  a  ruinous  condition  that  threatened 
its  very  existence.  Irving  —  and  he  was  not  alone 
in  the  apprehension  —  confidently  predicted  the 
ultimate  ruin  of  the  building  through  neglect,  and 
congratulated  himself  on  having  seen  its  beauties 
before  their  final  decay.  This  gloomy  foreboding 
was  natural.  The  Alhanibra  was  tenanted  by  bats 


102  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

and  beggars,  and  its  custodians,  if  they  cared  to 
do  so,  were  seemingly  powerless  to  arrest  the  slow 
progress  of  dilapidation.  It  was  only  the  timely 
awakening  of  Spain  to  the  value  of  preserving  this 
incomparable  monument  of  a  conquered  people  that 
forestalled  the  devouring  process  of  time.  To-day, 
fortunately,  no  speedy  destruction  is  to  be  feared. 
The  Alhambra  is  not  now  suffered  to  lie  in  neglect. 
Its  roofs  and  walls  are  no  longer  going  to  ruin. 
Workmen  are  constantly  at  work  upon  it,  retouch- 
ing here  a  little  and  there  a  little.  Its  garden  paths 
and  courts  are  swept  and  garnished.  In  the  shade 
of  its  many  porticoes  an  army  of  somnolent  custo- 
dians is  always  dozing.  Naturally  it  is  agreeable  to 
think  that  the  delicate  palace  is  so  well  protected 
against  destruction,  though  I  cannot  but  envy 
Irving  his  haunted  chamber  overlooking  the  little 
garden  of  Lindarraxa,  and  his  intimate  association 
with  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  place.  Then,  if 
ever,  might  one  hope  to  do  justice  to  the  Alhambra. 
Roughly  speaking,  the  palace  as  it  remains  to-day 
consists  of  but  two  great  courts,  adjoining  one  an- 
other and  inclosed  in  two  hollow  quadrangles  by 
low-roofed  buildings  which  form  the  palace  proper. 
The  first  and  larger  quadrangle,  variously  called  the 
Court  of  the  Myrtles  from  its  hedges,  or  the  Court 
of  the  Fishpond  because  of  its  placid  and  spa- 
cious pool,  is  perhaps  the  less  celebrated  of  the 
two,  although  it  would  be  somewhat  dangerous  to 
attempt  any  comparison  on  the  score  of  beauty. 


THE  ALHAMBRA  103 

To-day  the  court  shows  almost  no  traces  of  the  fire 
that  once  ravaged  it,  and  nothing  could  well  be 
more  peacefully  charming  than  this  spacious  close 
with  its  fragrant,  close-cropped  hedges  and  its 
glassy  sheet  of  water  reflecting  alike,  with  photo- 
graphic accuracy,  the  slender  grace  of  the  delicate 
porticoes  at  either  end,  the  greenery  of  the  myrtles 
along  the  marge,  and  the  fleecy  clouds  that  go  float- 
ing by  in  the  blueness  of  the  open  sky  above.  The 
tone  of  the  stonework  within  is  as  warm  and  tawny 
as  without,  but  instead  of  the  massiveness  of  the 
outer  walls  there  is  everywhere  airiness  and  light- 
ness, an  impression  produced  by  the  slenderness  of 
the  marble  columns  and  by  the  incredibly  graceful 
and  intricate  tracery  which  swarms  over  every  wall. 

Let  critics  quarrel  as  they  may  over  the  dominant 
architectural  influences  that  manifest  themselves 
in  this  palace,  be  they  Byzantine,  Greek,  Per- 
sian, Arabian,  or  really  and  peculiarly  "  Moorish  " ; 
all  agree  at  least  that  never  was  there  another 
such  combination  of  fragile  elegance  with  enduring 
strength.  After  almost  four  centuries  of  neglect  it 
remains  practically  unharmed,  its  original  coloring 
doubtless  mellowed  but  thereby  improved,  and  its 
wealth  of  tracery  and  tiles  but  slightly  marred. 

Down  along  the  edge  of  the  pool  within  which 
numberless  goldfish  darted  to  and  fro,  we  wandered 
to  the  cool  and  lofty  chamber  still  called  the  Hall  of 
the  Ambassadors,  because  it  was  here  that  the  kings 
were  wont  to  receive  emissaries  on  missions  of  peace 


104  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

and  war.  Here  later  stood  the  thrones  of  the  Cath- 
olic kings,  and  a  thoroughly  untrustworthy  rumor 
insists  that  in  this  very  chamber  they  received 
Columbus. 

The  room  occupies  a  massive,  square  tower,  en- 
trance to  which  is  gained  through  a  portico,  vaulted 
like  a  hollow  ship  and  somewhat  marred  by  fire. 
Within,  it  is  a  marvel  of  art.  The  lower  portion  of 
the  wall  is  set  with  figured  tiles  (azulejos),  possess- 
ing a  metallic  lustre  which  modern  science  strives 
in  vain  to  reproduce.  Above  this  succeeds  the  main 
surface  of  the  wall,  covered  with  a  bewildering  in- 
finitude of  arabesque  patterns  which  seemingly  were 
impressed  on  the  buff-colored  stucco  with  moulds 
while  the  stucco  was  still  warm  and  plastic.  And 
at  the  top  the  great  room  closes  in  a  dark  and  mys- 
teriously lofty  dome,  adorned  with  the  curious  sta- 
lactite formation  which  the  Moors  understood  so 
well  how  to  employ.  Deeply  recessed  windows  of 
graceful  outline,  their  coupled  arches  separated  by 
columns  of  a  marvelous  slimness,  afford  a  view  out 
over  the  glens  below,  —  deep  glens  whose  feathery 
treetops  do  not  reach  as  high  as  the  Hall  of  the  Am- 
bassadors. From  one  of  these  very  windows  and 
down  into  this  very  glen  it  is  claimed  that  his 
mother  lowered  the  ill-fated  Boabdil  by  a  rope  of 
scarfs,  that  he  might  be  borne  away  by  faithful 
servants  and  escape  the  death  which  his  jealous  and 
sanguinary  father  plotted  for  him. 

What  is  true  of  the  adornment  of  the  Hall  of  the 


THE  ALHAMBRA  105 

Ambassadors  is  equally  true  of  the  numerous  other 
pavilions  and  chambers  which  surround  the  quad- 
rangular courts.  Everywhere  is  the  same  wealth  of 
azulejos.  Always  the  bewildering  mazes  of  the  stucco 
work,  wherein  delicate  geometric  figures  combine 
with  Arabic  texts  to  produce  at  once  a  scheme  of 
adornment  and  a  sentiment  of  piety.  Over  and  over 
again  occurs  the  text,  —  and  even  one  who  knows 
no  Arabic  will  soon  learn  to  identify  it  out  of  a  thou- 
sand, —  "There  is  no  conqueror  but  Allah" ;  with 
which  fervent  abnegation  the  founder  of  all  this 
magnificence,  Mohammed  I,  greeted  his  subjects 
on  returning,  humbly  triumphant,  from  a  successful 
campaign. 

The  second  and  inner  quadrangle,  universally 
known  as  the  Court  of  the  Lions  from  its  most  im- 
pressive characteristic,  the  central  fountain,  differs 
from  the  Court  of  Myrtles  chiefly  in  being  smaller 
and  arcaded  on  all  sides  instead  of  merely  at  the 
ends.  There  is  much  more  to  be  seen  of  the  Moorish 
arches  and  decorative  work,  and  above  all  there  is 
the  fountain,  —  a  quaint  basin  borne  on  the  backs 
of  twelve  stone  lions  all  facing  outward  radially 
from  a  common  centre.  When  the  water  is  running 
it  gushes  from  the  mouths  of  all  twelve,  but  ordi- 
narily the  fountains  of  the  Alhambra  are  silent,  and 
are  active  only  on  state  occasions.  "  Please  make 
the  lions  play,"  pleaded  a  lady  of  my  acquaintance 
as  she  stood  before  the  astonished  guard.  "  Play?  " 
he  returned  with  bewilderment.  "Madame,  they 


106  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

cannot  play !  They  are  of  stone !  "  And  stone  they 
surely  are,  curiously  carved  and  highly  conven- 
tionalized ;  but  rude  as  they  are  no  one  could  mis- 
take them  for  anything  but  lions,  any  more  than 
one  could  mistake  the  stone  pigs  of  Avila  for  sea- 
horses. 

Practically  the  whole  court  is  lined  with  the  grace- 
ful portico  or  colonnade  of  horseshoe  arches,  which 
here  reach  their  highest  perfection.  And  yet  it  is 
interesting  to  know  that  the  horseshoe  arch  was  by 
no  means  a  Moorish  invention,  but  was  found  in 
Spain,  ready  to  hand,  when  the  Moors  arrived,  - 
brought  there  in  all  probability  by  the  Visigoths, 
who  in  turn  got  it  from  Byzantium.  So,  according 
to  the  archaeologists,  this  ancient  invention  of 
Arabian,  or  Islamic,  craftsmen  came  to  the  Moham- 
medan invaders  of  Spain  overland  and  met  them 
there,  instead  of  journeying  to  Granada  with  them. 

The  several  sets  of  chambers  that  surround  the 
court  are  not  greatly  different  from  that  described 
in  the  Hall  of  the  Ambassadors,  although  the 
tracery  seems  here  to  excel  slightly  in  delicacy,  and 
the  windows,  instead  of  looking  out  into  deep 
ravines  and  over  precipices,  face  upon  fascinating 
gardens  close  at  hand,  with  dark  cypress  trees 
pointing  upward  in  sombre  rows.  Of  course  there  is 
a  legend  to  go  with  each,  and  notably  the  gory  tale 
of  the  murdered  Abencerrages,  —  once  a  powerful 
clan  of  Granada,  —  who  were  summoned  to  a  feast 
in  the  Lion  Court  by  the  king,  and  then  one  by  one 


DETAIL   OF   THE   ALHAMBRA 


THE  ALHAMBRA  107 

called  aside  to  the  gloomy  chamber  that  still  bears 
their  name,  only  to  have  their  heads  lopped  off  and 
mingle  their  lifeblood  with  the  waters  of  the  foun- 
tain that  still  plays  there — when  fountains  in  the 
palace  play  at  all. 

To  attempt  any  description  of  the  manifold  de- 
tails would  be  even  more  discouraging  than  to  give 
a  general  idea  of  the  palace,  and  happily  it  is  not 
necessary.  The  true  charm  of  the  Alhambra  lies 
not  in  such  details  at  all,  but  rather  in  the  unan- 
alyzed  tout  ensemble,  wherein  all  components  blend 
and  go  unperceived,  like  individual  instruments  in 
a  great  orchestral  harmony.  Splendid  as  the  great 
chambers  are  with  their  tiles,  their  arabesques, 
their  stalactites  and  wondrous  lanterns,  their 
coupled  windows  and  their  delicate  columns,  they 
are  not  the  pictures  the  mind  carries  away,  nor  are 
they  the  ones  to  which  one  returns  with  the  keenest 
pleasure.  Rather  does  one  learn  to  love  most  of  all, 
I  think,  the  open  courts  with  their  pools  and  foun- 
tains, and  above  all  their  vistas,  —  long  vistas  of 
cool,  dark  halls,  whose  distant  windows,  destitute 
of  glass,  frame  bright  and  glowing  pictures  of  sunlit 
green. 

Our  own  favorite  and  particular  spot  in  the 
Alhambra  came  to  be  a  little  balcony  entirely  out- 
side the  more  ancient  Moorish  building,  and  con- 
nected instead  with  some  small  modern  apartments 
added  by  more  recent  Spanish  kings,  —  mainly,  I  be- 
lieve, by  Charles  V.  Access  to  these  separate  cham- 


io8  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

bers  is  obtained  by  turning  to  the  right  as  you  enter 
the  Hall  of  the  Ambassadors  and  traversing  a  nar- 
row gallery  which  is  extremely  attractive  in  itself. 
It  leads  one  to  the  tocador,  or  royal  boudoir,  its  inte- 
rior still  adorned  with  rude  frescoes  representing  the 
naval  victories  of  old  Spain,  which  are  interesting 
in  their  way  despite  their  crudity  and  bad  state 
of  preservation.  Just  outside  this,  and  almost  com- 
pletely encircling  it,  is  the  balcony  that  we  cherished 
most  of  all  the  rare  spots  in  the  building.  Looking 
from  this  toward  the  mountains  up  through  a  long 
vista  of  green  trees,  one  could  get  a  delightful 
glimpse  of  the  glittering  summit  of  the  Velata,  the 
one  mountain  of  the  magnificent  chain  behind 
Granada  that  possesses  any  semblance  of  a  peak. 
The  fresh  verdure  of  the  trees,  the  gleam  of  the 
distant  snow,  the  blue  of  that  cloudless  sky,  the 
dull  red  of  the  receding  procession  of  the  Alhambra 
towers, — all  these  combined  to  form  a  picture 
which  I  shall  not  soon  forget. 

Down  below  in  a  cool  and  dusky  portion  of  the 
building  that  lies  between  the  two  great  courts  and 
beneath  their  level,  is  still  to  be  seen  the  royal  bath. 
In  fact,  despite  the  warmth  of  the  April  sun  in  the 
courts  above,  we  found  this  ancient  toilet  apart- 
ment to  be  a  decidedly  chilly  place;  and  it  was  a 
comfort  to  read  later,  in  a  description  of  the  palace 
by  an  English  clergyman,  that  the  several  rooms 
were  warmed  on  occasion  by  a  "  subterraneous  hy- 
pocaust."  Surely  something  of  that  nature  must 


THE  ALHAMBRA  109 

have  been  required  when  these  apartments  were 
in  regular  use,  especially  as  there  were  bedrooms 
adjoining,  similarly  clammy  and  cold  and  in  dire 
need  of  the  hypocaust  too.  The  beds  were  spread, 
it  appeared,  on  a  raised  dais  of  stone  adorned  with 
azulejos,  doubtless  made  soft  and  comfortable  by 
the  use  of  rugs  and  blankets;  and  high  above  a 
gallery  was  to  be  seen  whence  musicians  discoursed 
soothing  music,  either  to  invite  slumber  or  to  while 
away  the  hours  of  wakeful  royalty  when  fresh  from 
the  bath. 

This  portion  of  the  palace  is  all  that  is  left  to  give 
any  intimate  idea  of  the  life  of  its  occupants,  the 
courts  above  being  more  in  the  nature  of  state 
chambers.  Here  one  feels  that  one  is  in  the  bosom 
of  the  family,  and  it  is  interesting  to  see  how  their 
life  was  ordered.  It  should  be  remembered  that  this 
remaining  fragment  is  the  summer  portion  of  the 
old  palace,  intended  for  occupancy  mainly  in  those 
warmer  months  when  subterraneous  hypocausts 
cease  from  troubling.  The  winter  side  of  the  struc- 
ture, also  consisting  of  two  quadrangles,  disap- 
peared to  make  way  for  Charles  V's  gigantic  folly. 
That  monarch,  great  and  valiant  emperor  that  he 
was,  can  hardly  be  pardoned  for  this ;  and  indeed  it 
is  curious  that  the  man  who  so  stingingly  rebuked  the 
canons  of  Cordova  for  their  ruin  of  the  great  mosque, 
should  himself  have  been  far  more  guilty  in  his 
treatment  of  the  palace  of  the  Moors.  Charles's 
huge  palace  is  windowless,  roofless,  and  ugly  to-day, 


I io  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

as  one  comes  into  its  curious  central  court  from  the 
Court  of  Myrtles.  Its  circular  patio  with  its  ad- 
mirable colonnades  is  the  only  interesting  feature 
of  the  building,  — aside  from  the  fact  that  it  shows 
the  curious  instability  of  rather  a  massive  structure 
contrasted  with  the  enduring  properties  of  the 
Alhambra. 

Behind  the  palace  proper  and  before  one  emerges 
from  the  narrow  lanes  into  the  open  field  that  cov- 
ers the  eastern  end  of  the  height,  there  are  secluded 
gardens,  hidden  by  the  high  wall  of  the  street.  It 
was  a  glorious  garden,  already  abloom  with  many 
flowers,  and  on  its  farther  edge  stood  a  most  at- 
tractive little  mosque  or  "mezquita,"  quite  as 
well  furnished  with  azulejos  as  any  apartment  in 
the  palace.1  Beyond  rose  the  many  towers  of  the 
narrowing  hilltop,  each  with  its  legend  or  actual 
history,  —  this  one  the  "  tower  of  the  captive  prin- 
cess," that  the  "  tower  of  the  Infantas,"  and  last  of 
all  the  remnant  of  the  gate  of  the  "  Siete  Suelos," 
Tower  of  the  Seven  Floors, — through  which  poor, 
impotent  Boabdil  passed  out  of  the  Alhambra  for- 
ever, "weeping  like  a  woman  over  the  loss  of  a 
kingdom  he  could  not  defend  like  a  man,"  and  out 
across  the  bare  hillside  still  called  the  "  Last  Sigh 

1  Subsequent  visits  to  Granada  have  revealed  the  utter  ruin  of 
this  garden,  which  was  one  of  the  most  charming  spots  in  the 
Alhambra  precinct.  From  present  indications  it  has  been  irre- 
mediably spoiled  by  ill-judged  efforts  to  rehabilitate  and  rejuve- 
nate it. 


IN  THE  MEZQUITA  GARDENS,  ALHAMBRA 


THE  ALHAMBRA  in 

of  the  Moor."  The  gate,  in  accordance  with  his  last 
wish,  was  closed  up  and  never  used  again.  To-day 
it  is  a  ruin. 

Limitations  of  space  will  not  permit  any  extended 
reference  to  the  romantic  history  of  the  building  of 
this  palace  and  its  ultimate  conquest  by  the  Cath- 
olic kings.  It  is  worthy  of  remark,  however,  that 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  on  taking  formal  possession 
in  1492,  were  enchanted  with  their  new  abode  and 
proceeded  to  occupy  it  as  a  palace,  restoring  it 
wherever  there  was  need ;  and  a  royal  residence  it 
continued  down  to  the  days  of  the  weak-kneed 
Philip  V,  who  decided  that,  as  between  the  Al- 
hambra  and  its  costs,  he  would  rather  have  the 
money,  and  therefore  allowed  it  to  fall  into  decay. 
Then  came  the  French  invaders,  who  abandoned 
Granada  so  recently  as  1812,  and  who  proposed,  as 
a  parting  token  of  their  esteem,  to  blow  the  whole 
building  to  atoms.  A  fuse  was  even  lighted  for  that 
fell  purpose  when  a  Spanish  soldier  spied  the  sput- 
tering thing  and  quenched  it,  —  a  quick-witted  act 
which  was  all  that  saved  the  Alhambra  from  sharing 
the  melancholy  fate  of  the  Parthenon. 

Between  the  hill  of  the  Alhambra  and  the  over- 
hanging height  still  higher  above  it,  commonly 
called  the  "Seat  of  the  Moor,"  there  is  a  sunken 
road  which  follows  the  deepening  ravine  down  to 
the  Darro,  at  first  gradual  but  later  increasingly 
steep  and  stony  as  it  drops  from  the  levels  of  the 
Alhambra  to  the  very  base  of  its  cliffs.  On  a  shelf 


H2  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

of  the  upper  hillside,  overlooking  this  road  and  its 
glen,  surrounded  by  Moorish  gardens  and  ancient 
cypresses,  stand  the  white  walls  and  towers  of  the 
Generalife,  once  the  summer  palace  of  the  Moorish 
kings,  but  now  a  villa  in  private  hands.  It  stands 
somewhat  higher  than  the  Alhambra,  with  which 
it  once  had  direct  connection  by  a  passageway ;  and 
to-day  it  is  to  be  reached  only  by  making  a  long 
detour  from  the  highroad  that  leads  away  to  the 
southeast. 

Merely  as  a  matter  of  Moorish  architecture,  the 
Generalife  is  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same 
breath  with  the  more  famous  palace.  As  a  sample 
of  Moorish  gardening,  however,  it  is  probably  su- 
preme. Admission  to  it  is  freely  granted,  but  for 
some  reason  the  present  owners  choose  to  make 
the  obtaining  of  tickets  as  inconvenient  as  possible, 
decreeing  that  every  one  shall  seek  the  Casa  de  los 
Tiros  down  in  the  city  and  obtain  his  gratuitous 
tickets  there.  The  latter  house  is  not  particularly 
easy  to  find  without  the  help  of  boys ;  but  there  are 
always  armies  of  those  about,  so  that  the  one  com- 
plaint is  the  inconvenience  of  going  downtown  and 
back.  The  Generalife  at  any  rate  is  to  be  seen 
without  money  and  without  price,  but  for  every 
visit  a  permission  is  necessary.  With  a  very  little 
practice  one  can  school  one's  self  to  call  it  the 
"Henry  Leafy"  without  looking  too  conscious. 

The  way  to  the  Generalife  gardens  lies  through 
an  avenue  of  cypress  trees,  close  clipped,  some 


THE  ALHAMBRA  113 

pointed,  some  truncated,  but  all  sombre,  and  form- 
ing together  a  shady  tunnel  down  which  one  has  a 
rearward  vista  to  the  snowy  Velata.  Through  an 
unpretentious  gate,  which,  like  that  of  the  Alham- 
bra,  is  wholly  unrelated  to  the  magnificence  within, 
one  steps  into  a  miniature  paradise.  It  is  a  court 
much  narrower  than  that  of  the  myrtles  in  the 
great  palace  below,  but  it  recalls  it  at  once  by  reason 
of  its  long  hedges,  its  fragrance,  and  especially  its 
long  and  narrow  pool  of  water.  On  either  side  of 
this  placid  canal  —  for  it  is  much  too  attenuated 
to  be  called  a  pond  —  range  multitudes  of  flowers 
and  shrubs ;  and  across  the  two  ends  stand  porticoed 
buildings,  —  not  fairy  palaces  like  the  halls  and 
towers  of  the  Alhambra,  but  light  and  airy  houses 
of  white,  with  plainer  arches  and  dainty  pillars. 
Open  balconies  above  give  superb  views  down  upon 
the  Alhambra  with  its  tawny  towers  just  across  the 
deep  and  shady  dell  that  lies  between.  There  is 
also  a  quaint  portrait  gallery  in  the  upper  rooms  of 
the  principal  building,  interesting  less  because  of 
the  quality  of  the  painting  than  because  of  the  sub- 
jects portrayed.  But  its  interest  pales  sadly  before 
the  attractiveness  of  the  gardens  that  lie  outside 
and  above,  on  the  terraces  that  mark  the  steep 
ascent  of  the  hillside  to  the  impending  "  Seat  of  the 
Moor,"  —  the  rocky  brow  that  looks  down  on  even 
the  lofty  Generalife. 

There  are  in  all  five  terraces  above  the  palace,  all 
very  similar  in  design.   They  are  reached  by  easy 


H4  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

flights  of  brick  steps,  the  balustrades  of  which  are 
often  grooved  to  permit  the  flow  of  water  from  one 
level  to  another.  Nowhere,  save  in  the  more  spa- 
cious and  less  attractive  royal  gardens  at  Seville, 
does  one  obtain  so  good  an  idea  of  the  passion  of  the 
Moorish  invaders  for  hydraulics  and  geometric 
gardening.  Cypresses,  many  centuries  old,  with 
gnarled  and  ancient  trunks,  cast  a  dense  shade  over 
these  narrow  terraces.  There  are  many  walls,  but 
one  is  not  conscious  of  them  owing  to  the  luxuriant 
vegetation  that  covers  everything ;  and  indeed  one 
is  hardly  conscious  of  the  smallness  of  the  gardens 
themselves.  The  whole  air  of  the  place  is  more  free 
and  easy  than  is  the  case  with  the  Alhambra.  It 
is  not  by  any  means  unkempt,  yet  impresses  the 
beholder  with  a  sort  of  unstudied  and  comfortable 
neglect  that  makes  it  far  more  "livable"  than  the 
showy  splendors  of  those  gorgeous  state  apartments 
below  on  the  adjoining  hill.  When  we  were  there 
the  water  was  not  running,  and  the  one  thing 
needful  was  the  cooling  plash  of  the  streams  and 
fountains  to  complete  the  indescribable  charm  of 
the  spot.  Not  until  the  authorities  arrange  for  the 
continuous  playing  of  the  waters  will  the  Alhambra 
and  the  Generalife  come  fully  to  their  own. 

The  environs  of  Granada  abound  in  pleasant 
walks.  If  you  will  but  pass  out  of  the  Alhambra 
and  take  the  road  up  through  the  elms  past  the 
Washington  Irving  Hotel  and  the  gateway  that  leads 
to  the  Generalife,  you  will  come  in  a  few  moments 


THE   GENERALIFE    GARDENS 


THE  ALHAMBRA  115 

to  a  cart-track  leading  off  to  the  left.  Strike  boldly 
into  this,  and  follow  it  through  an  olive  orchard 
and  up  a  narrow  valley  between  two  bare  hills,  and 
in  a  little  space  you  will  attain  the  top  of  that  long, 
treeless  ridge  that  lies  behind  Granada.  It  is  an 
easy  and  gradual  climb,  and  the  view  well  repays 
the  effort.  Swinging  around  to  the  left  along  the 
still  ascending  hillside  where  a  roughly  marked 
sheep  path  indicates  the  way,  you  will  find  your- 
self fcat  length  in  the  "  Silla  del  Moro,"  —  the 
seat  of  the  Moor,  —  with  the  Generalife  at  your 
very  feet.  It  is  from  this  eminence  that  one  ob- 
tains the  best  idea  of  the  Alhambra  which  lies 
below,  spread  out  like  a  toy  plan,  the  entire  circle 
of  its  walls  and  towers  visible  at  a  glance  as  in  a 
bird's-eye  view,  the  palace  courts  and  gardens 
showing  in  a  fascinating  miniature,  while  beyond 
and  still  farther  below  is  the  city,  shorn  of  its  last 
remnant  of  sordidness.  The  point  is  even  better 
chosen  for  viewing  the  sunset  than  the  Torre  de  la 
Vela  because  of  the  grander  view  of  the  Sierras, 
which  remain  in  sight  most  of  the  way  home  and 
afford  more  ample  opportunities  for  enjoying  the 
afterglow  that  lingers  when  the  sun  is  gone.  Besides 
there  is  the  broad  prospect  of  the  country  on  either 
side,  the  immensity  of  the  fertile  plain  with  its 
checker-board  of  green  fields  and  chocolate  soil, 
the  violet  bulks  of  distant  mountains,  and  the  in- 
finitesimal olive  trees  so  far  below  that  the  ladies 
declared  them  to  look  "  like  French  knots !  "  At  the 


n6  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

feet  is  the  deep  canon  of  the  Darro  and  the  bare, 
bald  heights  that  rise  so  grandly  opposite ;  and  back, 
far  back  of  Granada,  are  the  first  foothills  of  the 
snow-mountains,  yellow  and  scarred  by  innumer- 
able furrows  like  wrinkles  in  the  skin  of  some  huge 
giant.  As  a  vantage-ground  for  overlooking  Gra- 
nada and  its  environs,  the  Seat  of  the  Moor  is  un- 
surpassed. 

Should  one  desire  a  still  more  comprehensive 
view  of  the  country  outside,  however,  there  is  that 
limitless  ridge  running  back  along  the  Darro,  where 
the  cart-track  traverses  a  vast  and  silent  upland 
moor.  It  has  neither  trees  nor  shrubbery,  and  its 
herbage  is  a  symphony  of  lavender  and  sage-green. 
The  panorama  of  the  mountains  is  magnificent. 
The  sheer  drop  to  the  Darro  is  appalling.  The  deso- 
lation is  in  striking  contrast  with  the  abundant 
fertility  of  the  vega.  As  for  the  Sierras,  it  is  true 
that  they  are  often  sadly  clouded,  but  when  they 
are  clear  the  spectacle  is  truly  Alpine  in  its  contrast 
of  white  against  the  blue.  There  are  no  marked 
peaks,  to  be  sure,  and  it  is  rather  a  succession  of 
regular  domes,  giving  the  general  effect  of  a  snowy 
ridge.  The  only  point  of  any  prominence  is  the 
little  rise  that  marks  the  summit  of  the  Velata,  and 
the  loftier  and  more  distant  Mulhacen  shows  to 
very  little  advantage  when  it  can  be  seen  at  all. 
The  guards  of  the  Alhambra  are  accustomed  to 
point  out  the  Velata  from  the  little  balcony  of  the 
tocador,  and  call  it  the  Mulhacen ;  but  as  a  matter 


THE  ALHAMBRA  117 

of  fact  that  snowy  dome  is  to  be  seen  only  from  the 
bald  mountain  just  across  the  Darro,  a  splendid 
hill  dominating  the  district  of  the  Albaicin  from 
whose  midst  it  towers. 

To  see  that  smooth  and  neighboring  eminence  as 
we  did  on  our  first  scramble  to  the  Seat  of  the  Moor 
was  an  invitation  to  climb  and  conquer  it ;  and  on 
the  following  afternoon,  when  the  burden  and  heat 
of  the  day  had  begun  to  abate,  we  set  off  for  it, 
passing  down  to  the  river  by  the  sunken  road  and 
over  into  the  Albaicin  by  the  bridge  at  its  foot. 
The  way  thence  among  the  houses  of  the  town 
proved  somewhat  blind,  but  chance  served  us  well. 
While  we  were  hesitating  over  the  way  to  turn  and 
attracting  an  increasing  army  of  clamorous  children 
whose  one  thought  was  centimes,  a  head  was  thrust 
from  an  upper  window  and  a  voice  inquired  if  we 
were  in  quest  of  the  road  to  the  monastery  above. 
We  were.  Whereupon  the  voice  gave  us  the  desired 
directions,  adding,  "  I  know  you  very  well.  It  was 
I  who  the  other  night  directed  you  to  the  tower 
of  the  Vela!" 

The  begging  host  who  followed  us  to  the  very 
foot  of  the  hill  abandoned  us  as  hopelessly  unchari- 
table when  we  prepared  to  begin  the  actual  climb 
through  a  rough  and  cactus-grown  field  where  stony 
goat-paths  afforded  the  only  road  ;  and  from  thereon 
we  met  none  but  goat-herds  and  occasional  groups 
of  peasants.  On  the  brow  of  the  first  rise  stood  the 
monastery,  whence  high  walls  radiated  in  every  di- 


n8  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

rection  over  the  hillside,  pierced  here  and  there  by 
gates ;  and  at  one  of  these  which  seemed  to  afford 
the  speediest  access  to  the  open  smoothness  of  the 
mountain-side  we  found  a  dozing  officer,  doubtless 
supposed  to  be  sitting  at  the  receipt  of  custom.  He 
was  an  affable  soul,  and  made  us  sit  down  to  rest. 
Poor  man,  few  chances  for  conversation  fell  to  his 
lot,  and  it  seemed  a  relief  to  him  even  to  greet 
three  hot  and  weary  Americans  whose  limit  of  small 
talk  was  a  wave  of  the  hand  toward  the  imposing 
row  of  Sierras  and  a  heartfelt  "  buena  vista !  "  We 
tarried  but  a  little  while  with  him,  however,  for  the 
day  was  far  spent  and  the  summit  towered  still  far 
overhead.  The  most  direct  path  was  entirely  too 
steep  to  be  tempting,  but  by  circling  around,  the 
climb  was  made  less  arduous  and  the  summit  was 
attained  in  something  like  half  an  hour.  The  view 
was  easily  worth  the  trouble,  —  even  if  the  Mul- 
hacen  was  a  disappointment  and  far  less  impressive 
than  the  Velata  after  all.  Over  behind  our  hill  we 
had  a  glimpse  into  a  new  and  attractive  country, 
a  country  of  low  hills  as  smooth  and  bare  as  our 
own,  separated  by  deep  vales  through  which  a 
glistening  ribbon  of  white  road  led  to  distant  vil- 
lages. The  adjacent  steeps  were  patched  with 
gray  herds  of  grazing  sheep,  and  at  our  feet  lay  a 
lazy  boy  dreamily  watching  his  scattered  goats. 
I  suppose  it  is  these  numerous  herds  and  flocks 
that  keep  the  hillsides  so  close  cropped,  giving  them 
an  almost  startling  nudity  when  seen  from  afar. 


THE  ALHAMBRA  119 

Besides,  centuries  of  rain  have  worn  innumerable 
deep  furrows  in  the  skin  of  the  earth  which  the 
shadows  bring  into  sharp  relief  until  they  resemble 
nothing  so  much  as  huge  wattles  and  giant  rolls  of 
fat !  The  bareness  of  the  hills  and  vales  constantly 
recalls  the  relief  maps  which  geographers  some- 
times make  out  of  plaster. 

On  the  way  down  the  mountain  we  came  upon 
a  company  of  children  tending  the  family  flocks 
not  far  from  their  outlying  home,  and  instantly  a 
small  lad  broke  from  the  group  and  ran  after  us, 
madly  waving  a  brazen  chocolate-pot  of  comely 
shape  and  moderate  size.  It  was  his  evident  desire 
to  convert  this  metallic  vessel  into  silver  by  the 
subtle  alchemy  of  bargain  and  sale;  and  in  due 
season  we  arrived  at  a  price  satisfactory  to  all, 
whereupon  title  was  passed  to  this  needless  but 
altogether  fascinating  chattel.  We  had  barely 
reached  the  foot  of  the  steep  and  were  about  to 
emerge  from  the  cactus  hedges  when  there  was  a 
clatter  of  feet  behind,  a  great  rolling  of  stones  and 
loose  pebbles,  and  a  very  agitated  and  breathless 
boy  precipitated  himself  gasping  into  our  midst, 
anxiously  announcing,  "Mi  madre  no  quiere! 
Madre  no  quiere!"  (Mother,  in  other  words,  dis- 
approved the  sale  recently  consummated ;  whether 
because  of  the  price  we  paid  or  because  of  a  desire 
to  keep  her  chocolate-pot  at  any  cost,  we  never 
knew.)  The  pot  was  returned,  to  the  lad's  intense 
relief,  and  the  major  part  of  the  purchase  price 


120  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

duly  restored ;  whereat  he  departed  up  the  slope  as 
hurriedly  as  he  had  come,  with  much  scrambling 
of  feet  and  dislodgment  of  stones  in  the  gully  that 
does  double  duty  as  footpath  and  watercourse. 

I  have  found  it  absolutely  essential  to  exclude 
from  this  chapter  with  stern  but  reluctant  hand 
all  attempt  at  relating  the  myriad  legends  of  the 
spot.  There  is  not  a  tower  in  the  Alhambra  but  has 
its  memories,  —  pretty  fables,  it  is  true,  and  gener- 
ally devoid  of  any  historic  foundation,  yet  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  have  conferred  upon  the  various 
structures  names  that  have  endured  for  centuries. 
Since  the  whole  mass  of  legend  has  been  fused  to- 
gether in  Washington  Irving's  immortal  classic, 
no  subsequent  writer  has  had  either  the  occasion 
or  the  hardihood  to  essay  a  task  so  certain  to  fail 
by  comparison.  To  this  day,  Washington  Irving 
has  high  honor  both  in  Granada  and  in  the  Alham- 
bra which  he  celebrated  to  the  Western  world.  He 
has  even  achieved  the  apotheosis  of  having  a  hotel 
named  in  his  honor,  and  the  guards  of  the  palace 
still  point  out  his  room,  overlooking  the  gardens 
of  Lindarraxa,  from  the  windows  of  which  he  saw 
such  visions,  and  in  the  cool  shades  of  which  he 
dreamed  such  exquisite  and  romantic  dreams. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SEVILLE 

IT  is  a  long  day's  ride  from  Granada  to  Seville. 
Nine  hours  are  consumed  by  the  train  in  mak- 
ing the  run,  which  in  pure  linear  distance  is  some- 
thing like  two  hundred  miles.  Fortunately  there 
are  through  coaches  to  be  found,  if  one  is  wise 
enough  to  look  for  them,  and  these  avert  the  neces- 
sity of  changing  at  Bobadilla  and  La  Roda,  not  to 
mention  Utrera  later  in  the  afternoon.  Three  times 
a  week,  I  believe,  there  is  also  an  express  train  that 
makes  the  run  in  better  time. 

It  was  another  hot  April  morning  when  we  left 
Granada,  and  the  second-class  car  —  for  we  had 
decided  imprudently  to  trust  in  the  modest  com- 
forts of  that  conveyance  and  repented  of  it  later 
in  dust  and  cinders  —  jolted  its  leisurely  way  over 
mile  after  mile  of  shimmering  plain.  As  far  as 
Bobadilla  the  way  was  familiar,  but  reversed. 
There  was  a  tedious  climb  to  the  mountain  passes 
of  Loja,  and  as  compensation  therefor  a  headlong 
descent  to  the  meadows  beyond,  in  the  midst  of 
which  Bobadilla  spreads  her  network  of  steel.  It 
was  on  the  run  down  the  slope  that  we  essayed  to 
eat  our  luncheon,  and  the  difficulties  of  the  meal 
awakened  us  to  a  realizing  sense  of  the  fact  that 


122  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

Spanish  trains  can  run  rapidly  on  occasion  and 
that  their  roadbeds  are  not  always  constructed  for 
extreme  velocity.  However,  we  managed  to  con- 
sume the  major  portion  of  Landlord  Carmona's 
sandwiches,  and  spilled  but  a  little  of  our  bottle  of 
Rioja  while  the  train  was  coasting  down  a  winding 
grade  at  about  forty  miles  an  hour.  This,  however, 
was  the  only  stretch  of  road  where  any  fast  time 
was  made.  In  the  main  we  ambled  across  the  south- 
ern end  of  King  Alfonso's  dominions  at  a  very 
moderate  pace,  stopping  everywhere  for  at  least  a 
"minuto,"  and  commonly  for  more. 

As  second-class  passengers  we  came  into  closer 
contact  with  the  people  of  the  country  than  here- 
tofore. While  they  were  awake  they  were  ex- 
tremely voluble,  and  the  conversation  far  outran 
our  meagre  facilities  for  comprehension.  They 
partook  of  food  also,  but  wisely  postponed  that 
operation  until  the  train  was  jogging  serenely  over 
the  gently  undulating  plains  that  lie  toward  the 
west,  where  eating  was  less  a  matter  of  dexterity. 
So  far  as  appeared  from  their  actions,  there  was  no 
attempt  made  to  share  the  viands  that  came  forth 
from  their  bundles  of  greasy  newspaper,  despite  the 
common  tradition  that  every  Spaniard  thus  in- 
dulging himself  is  in  duty  bound  to  proffer  his  store 
of  provender  to  his  fellow  passengers,  —  they  in 
turn  being  equally  in  duty  bound  to  refuse !  Per- 
haps the  incongruity  and  emptiness  of  offering 
what  it  is  universally  known  is  not  to  be  accepted 


SEVILLE  123 

has  dawned  upon  the  Spanish  mind ;  for  it  is  said 
that  the  failure  to  decline  would  be  esteemed  a  bit 
of  rudeness  comparable  only  to  a  churlish  neglect 
to  extend  the  invitation.  At  any  rate,  the  other  oc- 
cupants of  our  compartment  consumed  their  food 
in  seeming  disregard  of  one  another,  although  con- 
versation never  flagged,  save  when  one  or  more  of 
the  participants  grew  weary  of  it  and  snored,  for 
a  change. 

Mountain  scenery  there  was  none  after  we  had 
slid  "down  the  valley  with  our  guttering  brakes 
asqueal,"  and  lost  the  snowy  sierras  forever  behind 
a  ridge  of  nearer  and  rockier  hills.  All  day  the  way 
was  through  a  green  and  pleasant  prairie,  not  lofty 
enough  to  be  bleak  like  the  deserts  of  the  interior, 
and  occasionally  marked  by  groves  of  trees,  al- 
though for  most  of  the  way  it  was  merely  broad 
miles  of  meadow  with  nothing  taller  than  pal- 
mettoes  to  be  seen.  Late  in  the  day  we  drew  into 
Utrera,  changed  ends  with  the  locomotive  for  the 
last  time,  and  speedily  sighted  across  the  meadows 
the  giant  cathedral  of  Seville,  "like  an  elephant 
amid  a  flock  of  couchant  sheep, "  the  graceful  tower 
of  the  Giralda  glowing  rosily  in  the  level  rays  of  the 
departing  sun. 

A  dusty  ride  through  tortuous  streets  and  over 
execrable  pavements  led  us  under  the  very  shadow 
of  the  great  church  and  into  a  pleasant,  palm- 
shaded  square  in  the  centre  of  the  city,  where  stood 
our  hotel;  and  good  it  seemed  to  wash  away  the 


124  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

stains  of  our  arduous  day's  traveling.  After  the 
stifling  heat  and  jolting  of  the  train  the  hotel  seemed 
cool  and  quiet,  and  a  breeze  springing  up  with  the 
setting  of  the  sun  rustled  pleasantly  in  the  great 
fronded  palms  of  the  plaza  beneath  our  windows. 
For  our  balconies  overlooked  the  spacious  square, 
and  in  the  distance  across  the  palm-tops  rose  the 
Giralda,  fair  as  a  lily  and  glowing  bright  against 
the  deepening  blues  of  the  April  dusk. 

Few  cities  have  been  more  celebrated  in  song  and 
story  than  this  Seville  that  we  looked  down  upon, 
—  a  city  which  from  its  languorous  climate  and 
intrinsic  beauty,  as  well  as  its  historic  associations, 
seems  always  to  have  possessed  a  peculiar  charm. 
It  is  more  than  sixty  miles  from  the  ocean,  yet  is 
actually  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  seaport  town, 
the  broad  and  winding  channel  of  the  Guadal- 
quivir bringing  to  the  very  heart  of  the  city  sea- 
going steamers  of  considerable  burthen.  In  size  it 
is  still  notable  among  the  cities  of  Spain,  harboring 
something  like  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  souls. 

It  was  evident  that  the  principal  buildings  were 
grouped  about  the  open  park  into  which  our  bal- 
conies looked,  or  at  least  were  in  no  case  very  far 
away,  for  directly  opposite  stood  a  handsome  build- 
ing in  the  "  plateresque"  manner,  which  has  been 
justly  deemed  one  of  the  finest  of  that  difficult  class 
in  Spain,  —  the  ayuntamiento,  or  city  hall,  —  and 
beyond  this  it  seemed  but  a  stone's  throw  to  the 
cathedral.  Radiating  from  the  vicinity  of  this 


SEVILLE  125 

square  as  a  natural  focus  of  activity  were  a  score  of 
streets,  mostly  narrow  and  redolent  of  their  Moor- 
ish past,  but  seldom  worthy  to  be  termed  beautiful. 
Seville  is  no  garish  capital  bedizened  with  tinsel  and 
display.  She  is  old.  Her  glories  are  of  a  substan- 
tial kind,  and  are  really  few  and  choice.  Apart 
from  them  she  is  a  city  compactly  built,  the  close- 
set  houses  lining  the  borders  of  streets  that  gen- 
erally lack  sidewalks,  reserving  what  efforts  they 
make  at  architectural  adornment  for  their  inner 
courts  and  patios. 

Despite  the  fact  that  the  day  was  done  and  dark- 
ness at  hand,  we  set  forth  immediately  for  an  initial 
stroll  before  the  dinner  hour,  —  which  in  Spain  is 
as  often  eight  as  earlier,  —  and  soon  found  our- 
selves quite  by  accident  in  the  great  orange  court 
that  lies  in  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral.  It  was 
walled  from  the  street  by  a  fort  of  churchly  offices 
ranged  about  it  in  a  hollow  square,  the  whole  being 
raised  above  the  level  of  the  streets  by  a  platform  of 
several  steps.  A  grand  Moorish  gateway,  topped 
by  a  belfry  of  many  arches,  gave  entrance  to  the 
inclosure,  where  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  perfume 
of  orange  blossoms.  Bells  were  clamoring  noisily 
from  the  Giralda  overhead,  that  tall  and  graceful 
shaft  still  rosy  with  the  reflections  of  the  western 
sky,  although  in  the  courts  below  it  was  very  nearly 
dark ;  and  I  hold  this  delicately  colored  tower  thus 
seen  against  the  background  of  approaching  night 
to  be  very  nearly  the  finest  sight  in  Spain. 


126  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

It  seemed  quite  too  late  to  hope  for  entrance  to  the 
cathedral,  and  yet  the  booming  of  an  organ  some- 
where within  stole  out  to  us  as  a  peasant  lifted  the 
leather  curtain  of  a  door  in  the  obscurity  of  the 
dusk.  We  followed  the  sound,  and  ventured  with 
careful  feet  through  the  dense  blackness  of  the  inte- 
rior, for  there  was  not  any  light  save  where  distant 
candles  far  away  in  the  body  of  the  church  re- 
vealed the  presence  of  shrines.  Windows  far  above 
gave  only  a  sort  of  indefinite  twilight  high  among 
the  arches  and  groinings  of  the  roof.  Of  the  floor  we 
could  see  nothing,  and  we  groped  our  way  cautiously 
along  the  benches  toward  the  music,  which  was  the 
most  remarkable  I  have  ever  heard  in  any  religious 
edifice.  It  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  the  gayest 
and  giddiest  of  glide  polkas  played  at  top  speed  on 
the  king  of  instruments,  and  giving  the  effect  of  no- 
thing so  much  as  the  organ  of  a  merry-go-round  at 
an  American  country  fair !  Nothing  more  thoroughly 
out  of  harmony  with  the  prodigious  solemnity  of 
the  dark  and  enormous  church  could  have  been 
devised.  But  then,  they  have  always  done  strange 
things  here !  Do  not  the  priests  of  Seville  cathedral 
dance  Pyrrhic  measures  there  on  certain  feast  days, 
saluting  the  high  altar  with  castanets?  At  any  rate, 
I  am  absolutely  sure  of  the  glide  polka,  the  joyous 
and  tripping  cadences  of  which  increased  in  volume 
as  we  worked  our  way  nearer  in  the  gloom  of  that 
forest  of  pillars.  It  turned  out  to  be  a  baptism, 
some  infant  receiving  its  christening  at  the  holy 


GATE  OF  CATHEDRAL   CLOSE,   SEVILLE 


SEVILLE  127 

font  in  a  dim  chapel  just  around  a  corner  of  the 
aisle;  and  if  its  auspices  accord  with  the  melody 
that  accompanied  the  churchly  ceremony,  it  will 
surely  dance  its  way  merrily  through  life. 

Our  real  exploration  of  the  cathedral  began  on 
the  following  day,  and  the  result  was  so  satisfactory 
that  it  drew  our  feet  back  thither  on  many  other 
days  thereafter,  despite  the  fact  that  one  full  round 
of  all  the  chapels  and  art  treasures  in  company 
with  the  official  sacristans  was  voted  to  be  quite 
enough.  It  is  essential,  however,  to  "  undergo" 
this,  as  Hare  would  have  put  it,  in  order  to  see  all 
there  is  in  this  immense  church,  much  of  which  is 
of  absorbing  interest  and  visible  in  no  other  way. 
One  must  perforce  be  accompanied  by  the  official 
guide,  and  the  chapter  thriftily  sells  tickets  of  ad- 
mission, good  for  one  continuous  passage  through 
all  points  of  interest,  which  latter  include  a  long 
succession  of  chapels  and  sacristies,  chapter  halls 
and  choirs,  constituting  together  one  of  the  notable 
art  collections  of  Europe. 

Considered  not  as  an  art  museum  but  purely  as 
a  church,  the  great  charm  of  Seville  cathedral  is 
found  in  its  vast  nave  and  aisles,  now  fully  re- 
stored to  their  pristine  beauty  after  several  costly 
disasters  due  to  the  falling  of  the  roof.  The  mag- 
nificent dimensions  of  the  cathedral  —  it  is  second 
to  St.  Peter's  for  sheer  magnitude  —  are  sufficient 
to  compel  admiration,  and  would  still  be  so,  even  if, 
as  in  St.  Peter's,  they  failed  to  combine  grace  with 


128  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

mere  immensity.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  the 
majesty  of  this  church  is  due  almost  as  much  to 
the  one  quality  as  the  other,  and  it  achieves  one 
result  that  St.  Peter's  does  not,  —  namely,  that  of 
a  convincing  unity.  Where  St.  Peter's  is  a  vast, 
cold,  religious  precinct,  Seville's  cathedral  is  a  sin- 
gle church,  used  by  one  congregation  as  smaller 
churches  are.  You  feel  that  this  edifice  is  used  for 
worship  by  the  people  of  Seville,  just  as  you  cannot 
feel  that  St.  Peter's  is  used  by  the  people  of  Rome. 

Architecturally  considered,  it  would  be  hard  to 
conceive  any  thing  built  with  hands  more  thoroughly 
worshipful  and  inspiring  than  this  matchless  inte- 
rior. To  be  sure,  it  is  marred,  as  all  Spanish  cathe- 
drals are,  by  the  intrusion  of  the  screened  choir 
and  capilla  mayor  on  the  vistas  of  the  nave.  But 
there  is  so  broad  a  sweep  of  aisle  on  either  side 
that  the  injury  worked  by  this  intrusion  is  less  than 
usual.  Furthermore,  the  cathedral  is  dim  without 
being  dark,  light  falling  in  richly  colored  bands 
from  windows  loftily  placed,  and  only  occasionally 
screened  by  curtains.  Not  the  least  of  the  secrets 
of  Seville's  charm  is  this  cunningly  devised  scheme 
of  lighting.  It  is  not  such  as  to  give  very  good 
views  of  the  pictures  hung  in  the  chapels  below,  to 
be  sure ;  but  it  more  than  atones  for  this  defect  by 
enhancing  the  grandeur  of  the  church  as  a  whole. 

When  the  chapter  originally  voted  to  build  this 
cathedral,  they  deliberately  set  out  to  erect  a 
building  "so  vast  that  the  beholder  should  esteem 


SEVILLE  129 

them  mad  for  having  undertaken  it."  Few,  how- 
ever, will  to-day  entertain  that  sentiment,  even 
though  the  cathedral  does  still  hold  the  palm  for 
sheer  magnitude  among  Catholic  churches,  and 
even  if  the  successive  fallings  of  the  cimborio  might 
point  to  at  least  a  lack  of  precautionary  wisdom 
on  the  part  of  the  architects.  It  is  truly  an  enor- 
mous church,  but  its  proportions  are  so  admirably 
contrived  that  mere  bulk  ceases  to  be  thought  of. 
Outwardly  it  is  not  nearly  so  effective.  Its  facade 
suffers  from  the  usual  over-elaboration,  and  its 
whole  outside  lacks  in  inspiration,  as  so  many  of 
the  Gothic  churches  of  Spain  admittedly  do.  The 
airy  beauty  of  the  Giralda,  which  serves  it  as  a 
campanile,  sorts  curiously  with  its  sombre  stone, 
and  the  joyous  arabesques  of  the  tower  panels  are 
in  strange  contrast  with  the  Gothic  style.  Never- 
theless, after  having  seen  many  of  the  famous 
churches  of  Spain,  I  cannot  but  conclude  that  on  the 
whole  Seville  cathedral  is  one  of  the  grandest,  if 
not  the  grandest,  of  them  all.  I  cannot  share  in  the 
sentiment  of  those  who  have  belittled  this  church 
and  taken  a  supercilious  delight  in  criticising  its 
defects.  Whatever  were  the  vainglorious  desires  of 
the  chapter  in  designing  this  colossal  edifice,  they 
at  least  succeeded  in  producing  a  vast  and  dignified 
temple  wherein  to  worship,  and  the  worshipful 
impulse  has  seldom  found  more  adequate  and  satis- 
fying expression  than  this,  combining  as  it  does 
the  beauty  of  holiness  with  majesty  and  power. 


130  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

It  were  hopeless  to  attempt  any  description  of  the 
numerous  art  treasures  contained  in  this  vast 
church  with  its  multitude  of  chapels  and  chapter 
rooms.  In  the  baptistery,  however,  to  which  we 
had  unwittingly  wandered  in  the  gloom  of  our  first 
evening,  there  hangs  a  noted  Murillo,  represent- 
ing the  appearance  of  the  Holy  Child  in  a  vision 
to  St.  Anthony  of  Padua.  St.  Anthony's  sombre 
figure  in  the  lower  corner  was  once  dextrously 
separated  with  a  knife,  from  the  remainder  of  the 
painting,  and  stolen.  It  reappeared  some  time  later 
in  America,  and  was  recovered,  its  restoration  to 
its  proper  place  in  the  original  canvas  being  won- 
derfully successful.  The  picture  itself  is  worthy  of 
long  study  as  an  example  of  Murillo's  more  sombre 
work,  but  is  so  hung  as  to  be  wretchedly  lighted. 
The  same  artist  is  also  worthily  represented  in  the 
other  portions  of  the  cathedral  by  well-known 
paintings,  chief  among  which  is  the  Guardian 
Angel,  —  the  English-speaking  guides  call  it,  I 
believe,  "The  Angel  of  the  Guard  !  "  But  this, 
like  many  of  the  others,  is  execrably  lighted,  and 
to  see  it  at  all  well  requires  that  one  remain  in- 
doors long  enough  to  accustom  the  eyes  to  see- 
ing in  the  dimness  of  the  sanctuary.  One  will 
speedily  discover  by  experience  what  hours  serve 
best  for  viewing  certain  of  the  more  celebrated 
paintings. 

In  the  large  sacristy  in  the  south  wall  is  the  prin- 
cipal museum  of  the  cathedral,  where  the  great 


SEVILLE  131 

majority  of  its  art  treasures  have  lately  been 
grouped  and  rearranged  with  tolerable  success. 
It  is  a  noteworthy  collection,  and  might  well  rank 
among  the  celebrated  European  galleries,  despite 
its  comparatively  small  size.  Many  old  masters  are 
represented  in  it  by  pieces  of  more  or  less  authen- 
ticity, and  there  is  to  be  seen  at  least  one  of  those 
surprisingly  lifelike  sculptures  in  wood  represent- 
ing the  Crucifixion  with  excruciating  realism.  It  is 
in  wood  alone  that  the  Spanish  sculptors  seem  to 
have  done  their  best  work,  and  in  that  they  have 
excelled  most  other  nations. 

Our  visit  fell  on  the  verge  of  Holy  Week,  and 
at  the  time  the  workmen  were  covering  the  enor- 
mous retablo  of  the  high  altar  with  a  purple  veil. 
But  the  organs  were  not  yet  hushed,  and  we  were 
fortunate  indeed  to  hear  them,  for  nothing  more 
uplifting  can  well  be  imagined  than  the  full- 
throated  melody  of  those  myriad  pipes  soaring 
through  the  twilight  of  that  magnificent  grove  of 
pillars.  In  nearly  every  Spanish  church  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  organs  is  the  same,  —  one  on 
either  side  of  the  choir,  perched  high  above  the 
stalls,  with  a  horizontal  flare  of  trumpet-shaped 
pipes  radiating  above  the  head  of  the  organist  like 
leveled  blunderbusses.  These  in  Seville  may  not 
be  the  finest  instruments  in  Europe,  but  their  effect 
in  the  enormous  fane  was  indescribably  fine,  as 
indeed  was  the  impression  produced  by  the  whole 
service,  —  the  monotone  of  the  droning  priests,  the 


r 


132  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

bursts  of  melody  from  the  lofty  instruments,  the 
sweet  fragrance  of  the  censers,  and  those  long,  dusty 
shafts  of  colored  light  falling  through  the  "  strong, 
thick,  stupefying  incense-smoke"  to  form  brilliant 
patches  on  the  huge  gray  boles  of  the  supporting 
columns. 

In  the  south  aisle  of  the  cathedral  is  the  tomb  of 
Christopher  Columbus,  wholly  unworthy  in  design 
of  the  illustrious  navigator  whom  it  commemorates 
and  whose  bones  it  now  incloses.  It  savors  of  the 
degenerate  taste  which  has  latterly  marred  so  many 
noble  churches,  and  which  is  so  acutely  out  of  ac- 
cord with  the  surroundings  of  so  chaste  a  Gothic 
interior  as  that  of  Seville  cathedral.  Columbus, 
while  a  Genoese  by  birth,  was  far  more  Spaniard 
than  Italian  by  association.  He  died,  not  at  Seville, 
but  at  Valladolid ;  and  his  remains  were  moved 
about  from  pillar  to  post  until  it  seemed  that  the 
doughty  admiral  was  destined  to  be  as  great  a  voy- 
ager in  death  as  he  had  been  in  life.  He  lay  for  years 
in  an  obscure  church  in  the  Triana  district  of  Seville, 
and  was  later  transported  to  the  New  World  he  had 
discovered,  —  first  to  Hayti  and  later  to  Havana,  in 
which  latter  place  he  rested  until  the  war  of  1898 
deprived  Spain  of  her  last  shred  of  empire.  His 
body1  was  then  taken  back  to  Seville  and  solemnly 
interred  in  this  grotesque  tomb,  its  huge  coffin 
borne  aloft  on  the  shoulders  of  gigantic  figures. 
Possibly  it  may  now  be  permitted  to  rest  here  until 
1  Let  us  at  least  believe  it  his ! 


SEVILLE  133 

the  Judgment  Day,  undisturbed  and  duly  rever- 
enced. 

A  further  unworthy  feature  of  the  Passion  season 
in  Spanish  churches  is  the  disfigurement  of  them  by 
temporary  monuments.  While  we  were  in  Seville 
they  were  erecting  one,  a  sort  of  pavilion  behind 
the  rear  screen  of  the  choir,  adorned  with  huge 
statues  of  grotesque  mould  somewhat  like  those  on 
the  tomb  of  Columbus  and  suggesting  them,  but 
having  this  advantage  over  the  tomb,  that  they 
at  least  were  transitory  instead  of  a  permanent 
blemish.  To  the  native  mind,  however,  it  seemed 
that  the  Easter  monument  was  if  anything  superior 
to  the  ordinary  splendors  of  the  church.  On  our 
nocturnal  visit  an  eager  boy  had  clutched  the  hems 
of  our  garments  and  had  led  us  through  the  mys- 
terious darkness  of  the  nave  to  one  of  the  graven 
images  about  to  be  hoisted  to  place  on  top  of  the 
pavilion,  exhibiting  it  with  much  pride.  It  was  an 
awesome  thing  in  the  dark,  towering  heroically,  its 
general  appearance  faintly  guessed  by  the  glimmer- 
ing light  of  distant  tapers.  But  by  day  it  stood 
revealed  in  all  its  tawdry  hideousness,  yet  hailed 
by  the  devout  populace  as  a  triumph  of  religious 
art.  It  makes  it  seem  a  pity  that  Murillo  and 
Velasquez  were  born  so  early,  or  at  least  that  their 
exquisite  taste  could  not  have  been  transmitted  to 
their  fellow  townsmen  of  a  later  day. 

The  Giralda,  already  many  times  referred  to,  the 
tower  in  which  hangs  the  multitude  of  cathedral 


134  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

bells,  is  in  part  at  least  a  work  of  the  Moors.  When 
Christianity  drove  out  Islam,  the  mosques  of  the 
latter  commonly  became  the  churches  of  the  former, 
and  God  continued  to  be  worshiped  there  under 
another  name  and  sign.  Indeed,  as  at  Rome  and 
Athens,  even  the  sites  of  remote  pagan  worship 
thus  remained  dedicated  to  pious  uses,  and  analyti- 
cal visitors  have  discovered  in  the  processions  of 
Good  Friday,  for  which  Seville  is  so  famous,  sur- 
vivals of  the  pagan  period.1  These  disjecta  membra 
of  creeds  long  outworn,  discoverable  in  so  many 
of  the  sites  of  the  older  civilization,  might  well 
afford  material  for  highly  interesting  research. 

At  Seville  the  mosque  proved  less  enduring  than 
that  of  Cordova ;  and  while  worship  continued  on 
the  same  spot,  it  was  in  a  different  temple,  the 
older  edifice  being  entirely  wiped  out  when  the 
chapter  adopted  the  mad  design  of  making  a  mon- 

1  Mr.  Havelock  Ellis  in  his  admirable  Soul  of  Spain  traces  a 
probable  connection  between  the  image  of  the  Virgin  borne  on 
the  shoulders  of  men  in  the  processions  of  Holy  Week  and  the 
ancient  processions  described  by  Virgil,  wherein  the  Berecynthian 
mother  was  borne  on  a  car  through  Phrygian  cities.  And  he  adds : 
"  Seville  was  the  only  city  of  the  western  world  that  held  a  temple 
of  Salammbo,  whence  every  year  at  her  festival  the  goddess  went 
through  the  city  in  procession  on  the  shoulders  of  noble  ladies. 
Justina  and  Rufina,  the  young  Christian  market  girls,  refused  to  do 
her  homage  and  were  martyred  by  the  pious  crowd,  becoming  in 
their  turn  the  tutelary  saints  of  Seville.  Yet  in  the  end  Salammbo 
has  conquered,  and  the  ancient  Sevillians  could  not  fail  to  recog- 
nize and  reverence  their  goddess  in  the  streets  to-day."  —  The 
Soul  of  Spain,  pp.  366,  367. 


SEVILLE  135 

ster  church.  Only  the  ancient  minaret  remains, 
much  altered  and  amplified,  — but  fortunately  not 
at  all  impaired  as  to  its  beauty.  The  main  body 
of  the  tower  is  of  Moorish  construction,  and  is  said 
to  embody  much  ancient  Roman  stonework.  With 
the  present  pinnacle  added,  the  crest  of  the  tower 
is  now  something  like  three  hundred  feet  above  the 
court  of  the  oranges  at  its  base,  and  surmounting  it 
all  is  a  huge  bronze  figure  of  "  Faith,"  —  the  giral- 
dillo,  or  vane,  which  gives  its  name  to  the  tower, 
—  turning  freely  with  every  wind  of  heaven.  The 
inappropriateness  of  such  a  function  for  the  image 
of  Faith  has  often  been  commented  upon;  and 
yet,  in  view  of  the  manifold  mutations  which  faith 
has  undergone  on  this  very  spot  between  Iberian, 
Roman,  Carthaginian,  Moorish,  and  Christian  oc- 
cupants, it  may  not  be  so  inappropriate  after  all. 

The  ascent  of  the  Giralda  is  not  a  difficult  task. 
The  climb  is  made  by  means  of  a  series  of  inclines 
instead  of  by  steps,  and  at  least  one  venturesome 
person  has  ridden  to  the  belfry  on  horseback. 
From  among  the  arches  where  the  bells  are  hung 
there  is  to  be  had  a  magnificent  view  over  the  level 
plains  and  down  the  winding  Guadalquivir,  —  the 
"silver  road"  once  traversed  by  the  venturesome 
and  triumphant  Admiral  Colon.  The  Giralda  bells 
are  named  for  various  saints,  and  while  we  stood 
there  looking  down  on  the  broad  meadows  and  the 
yellow  thread  of  the  river,  Santa  Maria  and  San 
Juan  were  engaged  in  a  clangorous  duet,  the  bell- 


136  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

ringers  whirling  the  huge  masses  of  metal  over  and 
over  in  mighty  circles  with  a  dexterity  that  com- 
pelled admiration  in  spite  of  the  overpowering, 
deafening  din. 

It  is  from  the  belfry  of  the  Giralda  that  one  gets 
as  intimate  a  view  of  the  cathedral  as  is  possible 
from  any  point.  It  lies  below,  but  not  far  enough 
down  to  prevent  examination  of  its  lofty  roof,  with 
its  clerestory  and  Gothic  ornamentation.  Besides 
there  is  a  splendid  view  over  Seville  with  her  palm- 
grown  squares  and  narrow  streets,  and  even  into 
the  deep  dells  of  the  Alcazar  gardens,  which  seem 
to  lie  almost  at  the  Giralda's  foot.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  is  but  a  little  way  to  the  Alcazar  itself,  —  a 
Moorish  palace  which,  despite  its  failure  to  com- 
pare in  beauty  with  the  Alhambra,  is  decidedly  not 
to  be  ignored.  Its  gardens,  rather  than  its  halls  and 
courts,  afford  the  chief  charm  with  their  maze  of 
paths  and  hedges  and  their  very  curious  applica- 
tion of  hydraulics.  As  in  the  Alhambra,  one  goes 
with  a  guide ;  but  unlike  the  Alhambra,  this  palace 
opens  only  to  the  silver  key,  and  a  ticket  is  issued 
for  a  price  in  the  name  of  thrift.  For  this  fairy 
palace  has  not  been  abandoned  to  the  mere  uses  of 
a  show  place,  but  is  even  to-day  a  royal  residence, 
and  is  said  to  be  preferred  by  the  present  queen  to 
the  splendid  but  oppressively  enormous  palace  at 
Madrid. 

The  Alcazar  is  not  only  less  ancient  than  the 
Alhambra,  but  it  is  also  much  more  obviously  be- 


SEVILLE  137 

furbished  and  renovated.  Its  gilding  is  as  fresh  and 
bright  as  that  of  the  library  at  Washington.  Its 
reds  and  blues  and  buffs  have  not  the  saving  grace 
of  age.  And  so  much  of  it  is  garish,  blatant,  and 
thoroughly  unsatisfactory.  It  might  have  been  much 
more  effective  if  it  had  remained  as  it  was  and 
had  been  permitted  to  yield  to  a  general  flavor  of 
mild  decay.  Even  the  additions  of  Charles  V  might 
please,  —  although  the  guides  generally  exclaim,  as 
they  point  to  these  Carlovingian  additions,  "  Carlo 
Cinco  —  malo !  "  As  it  is,  the  Alcdzar  of  Seville  has 
a  spruce  and  rejuvenated  appearance  that  grates 
rather  harshly.  A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress  comes 
not  amiss  in  such  buildings  after  so  many  centuries. 
Practically  nothing  now  remains  of  the  original 
Alcazar,  and  still  less  of  the  Roman  Prsetorium, 
which  was  its  predecessor  on  the  site.  The  present 
building  is  merely  the  restored  palace  of  Peter  the 
Cruel  (Peter  I),  plus  certain  amplifications  made 
by  the  great  Charles  shortly  after  his  marriage  in 
these  very  courts  to  Isabella  of  Portugal,  whose 
altogether  charming  portrait  is  to  be  seen  to-day 
in  the  Prado  at  Madrid.  The  palace,  however,  is 
more  thoroughly  identified  with  Peter's  memory, 
and  many  interesting  traditions  of  his  reign  survive. 
He  was  a  curious  character,  sudden,  quick  in  quar- 
rel, and  apparently  well  worthy  of  his  sobriquet; 
for  as  you  wander  through  the  gardens,  you  are 
constantly  reminded  of  sanguinary  acts  which  he 
committed  in  the  name  of  "justice" — a  quality 


138  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

on  which  he  prided  himself.  And  yet  he  appears 
to  have  been  rather  a  popular  monarch.  He  mur- 
dered cheerfully  whomsoever  he  would,  and  then 
occasionally  cracked  a  grim  joke  by  demanding 
that  the  police  produce  at  once  the  guilty  homicide, 
on  pain  of  their  own  decapitation !  On  at  least  one 
occasion  this  grim  jest  reacted  on  the  king  himself. 
While  carousing  in  disguise  through  the  streets  by 
night,  as  was  his  wont,  he  killed  a  man,  and  his 
face  was  accidentally  seen  by  an  aged  crone,  who 
carried  her  momentous  secret  to  the  alguazil.  Here 
was  indeed  a  quandary!  The  alguazil  had  been 
commanded  by  Peter  himself  to  produce  the  culprit 
within  forty-eight  hours,  —  and  that  culprit  was 
Peter!  Tradition  relates  that  the  quaking  prefect 
made  him  a  graven  image  marvelously  like  the 
king,  and  at  the  time  appointed  haled  it  to  the 
royal  presence ;  whereat  the  king  ordered  the  effigy 
to  be  hung  as  high  as  Haman,  and  absolved  his 
ingenious  officer  in  haste. 

Peter  had  for  his  favorite  consort  Maria  de 
Padilla,  for  whose  sake  he  put  away  a  lawfully 
wedded  wife  of  royal  blood ;  and  he  constructed  for 
her  use  a  long  subterraneous  bath,  —  warmed  by  a 
hypocaust,  no  doubt,  —  through  the  vaulted  roof 
of  which  he  provided  windows  for  viewing  that 
charming  lady  at  her  ablutions.  It  remains  to-day, 
a  cool  and  gloomy  apartment  like  a  tunnel,  truly 
grateful  on  a  hot  afternoon  to  one  wearied  with  the 
heat  and  glare  of  the  gardens.  The  stone  tank  in  its 


SEVILLE  139 

midst  is  very  long  and  narrow,  not  deep  enough  to 
swim  in,  but  large  enough  to  accommodate  Maria 
de  Padilla  and  a  whole  regiment  of  waiting  maids 
at  one  bathing.  The  courtiers  were  expected  to 
drink  eagerly  of  the  water  afterwards,  and  in  view 
of  their  master's  hasty  temper  and  habit  of  cutting 
off  heads  for  less  offense,  they  doubtless  did  so 
with  loyal  enthusiasm  and  much  smacking  of  lips ! 
The  palace  gardens  are  extensive  and,  as  has  been 
said,  are  charming,  particularly  in  the  early  sum- 
mer, before  the  parching  heat  of  Seville  has  burned 
them.  Thanks  to  the  Moors,  who  were  a  cleanly 
race  and  addicted  to  the  copious  use  of  water,  the 
garden  paths  lack  not  for  hydraulic  arrangements 
of  every  kind.  At  least  one  path  is  perforated  from 
end  to  end  with  tiny  holes,  almost  imperceptible  to 
the  eye,  and  the  guards  regard  it  as  a  huge  jest  to 
inveigle  one  into  this  tempting  byway  and  then 
set  the  whole  district  to  playing  madly  by  a  sudden 
turn  of  a  hidden  stopcock.  The  jets  rise  vertically 
from  the  pavement  to  a  height  of  perhaps  four  feet 
-  and  to  appreciate  it  one  must  be  dressed  in  a 
bathing  suit.  To  those  unsuitably  attired,  the  one 
feasible  course  is  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat  to  dry 
ground,  and  laugh. 

It  is  in  Seville  that  one  first  comes  full  upon  Span- 
ish art  as  manifested  by  one  of  the  greatest  of  the 
few  essentially  Spanish  painters,  —  Murillo.  With 
all  due  respect  to  the  museum  of  the  Prado,  - 
easily  one  of  the  finest  art  collections  in  the  world, 


140  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

and  probably  the  very  finest  considered  purely  as 
a  collection  of  the  art  of  the  golden  age,  —  it  can- 
not claim  to  rival  the  museums  of  Seville  in  its 
capacity  as  a  treasure  house  of  Murillo,  any  more 
than  Seville  could  claim  preeminence  to  Madrid  as 
the  possessor  of  the  work  of  Velasquez.  There  are 
several  notable  gatherings  of  Murillo's  work  in 
Seville,  and  I  have  no  intention  of  attempting  any- 
thing so  hopeless  as  to  describe  them  in  detail.  It 
is  somewhat  unfortunate  that  Murillo  lived  in  an 
age  of  such  excessive  religiosity;  for  the  demands 
made  by  Holy  Church  on  his  indefatigable  brush 
confined  him  far  too  steadfastly  to  the  portrayal 
of  Madonnas  and  Infant  Christs,  and  the  result  is  a 
sameness  throughout  his  work,  despite  his  inimit- 
able mastery  of  mellow  color.  The  main  collection 
in  the  principal  art  museum  of  the  city  is  therefore 
but  ill  designed  for  human  nature's  daily  food,  and 
the  artist,  great  as  he  evidently  is,  suffers  sadly 
from  his  own  prodigious  output  of  Holy  Families, 
saints,  and  Blessed  Virgins  grouped  together  in  one 
vast  and  lofty  room.  Just  a  few  cold,  gray-green 
Velasquez  portraits  here  and  there  would  relieve  the 
monotony  of  all  this  loveliness,  and  give  a  pleasant 
and  needful  contrast,  both  in  subject-matter  and 
coloring. 

With  all  due  reverence,  one  must  hold  it  a  very 
great  pity  that  Murillo  was  so  constantly  employed 
in  decorating  the  altars  and  conventual  institutions 
of  his  native  land,  just  as  one  must  deplore  the  fact 


SEVILLE  141 

that  Velasquez,  that  other  great  Sevillian,  was  so 
beset  with  requisitions  for  the  portrait  of  the  vapid 
Philip  IV.  Each  artist  was  sadly  fettered  by  his 
clientele.  The  religious  world  was  too  much  with 
the  former,  and  his  royal  master  was  too  insistent 
with  the  latter,  to  permit  much  diversity  in  either. 
It  is  certainly  not  Murillo's  fault  that  he  seems 
to-day  to  have  moved  too  steadily  within  the  sacred 
circle  of  the  church  and  too  seldom  to  have  thrust 
but  one  foot  without  it.  The  demands  of  his  time, 
fanatically  Catholic,  even  for  Spain,  simply  pre- 
cluded him  from  following  any  other  line.  And  the 
fact  that  he  so  triumphantly  surmounts  these  ham- 
pering difficulties  is  what  proves  him  essentially 
great.  In  that  endless  round  of  saints  and  martyrs 
he  does  not  lose  his  freshness,  and  there  is  no  dimi- 
nution of  the  skill  of  his  coloring.  He  was  the  painter 
of  light,  as  his  fellow  townsman  Velasquez  was  the 
painter  of  shadow.  The  latter  could  not  have  painted 
those  radiant  saints  and  children,  and  the  former 
could  not  have  painted  Las  Meninas. 

Since  one  must  have  Murillo  inseparable  from 
religion,  it  is  probable  that  he  is  to  be  seen  at  his 
best  in  those  cases  where  the  paintings  remain  in 
their  original  places,  as  is  the  case  with  the  St. 
Anthony  of  the  cathedral,  or  the  magnificent  panels 
and  lunettes  of  the  Hospital  of  the  Caridad.  The 
latter,  like  those  of  the  cathedral,  are  unsatisfac- 
torily lighted ;  but  by  a  sufficiency  of  manoeuvring 
and  excluding  the  glare  of  the  windows,  one  may 


142  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

obtain  a  very  good  view  of  the  loftily  hung  painting 
of  "La  Sed,"  -the  thirst  of  the  wandering  Israel- 
ites, —  and  of  the  little  less  celebrated  representa- 
tion of  the  miracle  of  the  loaves  and  fishes.  Aside 
from  these  and  four  other  smaller  Murillos  still 
hanging  in  the  Hospital  of  the  Caridad,  that  edifice 
offers  almost  nothing  of  interest.  But  it  needs  no 
more. 

The  founder  of  this  hospital,  a  gay  youth  who 
repented  of  his  early  sins  like  St.  Francis,  but 
without  achieving  the  same  celebrity,  lies  buried 
humbly  beneath  the  threshold;  and  as  you  pass 
out  over  his  tomb  you  stand  face  to  face  with  the 
Tower  of  Gold  that  graces  the  bank  of  the  Guadal- 
quivir near  by.  It  was  once  covered,  according  to 
a  proud  tradition,  with  gold,  —  more  probably  with 
azulejos  of  a  golden  tint,  —  and  was  a  wonder  in 
the  sunshine.  The  situation  of  this  golden  monu- 
ment was  well  chosen,  standing  as  it  does  on  the 
verge  of  the  river's  tawny  flood,  down  which  the 
galleons  of  Spain  were  wont  to  float  on  their  way 
to  the  ocean  and  the  western  world.  It  was  on  the 
bank  of  this  stream  that  Columbus  was  received 
when  he  returned  from  his  voyages  of  discovery,  — 
the  discovery  that  opened  to  Seville  her  great  but 
transitory  eminence.  From  the  west  came  fabu- 
lous stores  of  gold.  Spain  became  the  richest  of 
nations  and  her  empire  the  broadest  the  sun  shone 
upon.  Seville  was  invested  with  the  rich  monopoly 
of  transatlantic  trade.  The  golden  tower  was  the 


SEVILLE  143 

symbol  of  the  city's  commercial  greatness  and  the 
empire's  pride.  And  yet  the  tower  long  antedated 
the  discoveries  of  Columbus,  built  as  it  was  by  the 
Moors  before  a  western  world  was  ever  dreamed  of, 
and  used  for  long  years  by  Peter  the  Cruel  as  a 
prison.  And  in  these  days  of  peace  and  decaying 
commerce,  Seville  uses  it  as  the  office  of  her  harbor- 
master !  But  the  banks  of  the  river  are  not  deserted, 
even  now.  The  water  is  deep  enough  to  bring  vessels 
of  sixteen  feet  draught  to  the  city  from  the  sea, 
and  all  up  and  down  the  curving  quay  may  be  seen 
large  steamers  loading  or  discharging,  schooners 
and  barks,  tugboats  and  barges.  It  seems  incred- 
ible that  Cadiz  and  the  ocean  are  more  than  sixty 
miles  away. 

Across  the  broad  river,  the  current  of  which  is 
yellower  than  even  that  of  the  Tiber,  there  rises 
a  considerable  settlement  whose  pottery  shops  are 
well  worth  the  visiting.  It  is  a  section  bearing  the 
name  of  Triana  —  a  reminiscence  of  the  Emperor 
Trajan,  who  was  born  not  many  miles  away.  The 
neighborhood,  by  the  way,  was  prolific  of  Roman 
emperors  of  the  later  period,  for  Hadrian  and  Theo- 
dosius  also  sprang  from  Italica,  an  adjacent  town, 
the  remains  of  which  are  still  easily  discernible  if 
one  will  but  take  the  trouble  to  drive  thither.  As 
for  Triana,  it  is  to-day  merely  a  squalid  outpost 
of  Seville  devoted  to  lustre-pottery  of  a  curiously 
beautiful  kind,  and  approximating  in  its  iridescence 
the  lost  art  of  the  azulejos.  A  splendid  bridge  that 


'144  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

marks  the  head  of  navigation  for  large  craft  spans 
the  yellow  flood.  Here  it  was  that  the  two  favorite 
saints  of  the  city,  Justina  and  Rufina,  met  their 
violent  deaths  for  refusing  to  do  homage  to  a  pagan 
procession  in  honor  of  Salammbo  —  lineal  ancestor 
of  the  very  procession  that  all  Seville  to-day  bows 
to  in  such  reverence ! 

The  streets  of  Seville  proper  are  narrow  and 
winding,  as  they  have  been  from  time  immemorial, 
bearing  witness  to  the  cunning  of  the  Moors  in 
mitigating  the  rigors  of  the  summer  sun  by  pro- 
viding an  abundance  of  shade.  Outwardly,  as  has 
been  said,  the  houses  which  line  these  winding  high- 
ways are  much  the  same,  reserving  all  their  archi- 
tectural pretensions  for  the  patios  and  courts,  fas- 
cinating glimpses  into  which  are  constantly  being 
afforded  by  slightly  open  doors.  There  are  one  or 
two  buildings  of  magnitude  that  command  atten- 
tion, notably  the  enormous  official  tobacco  factory 
that  lies  near  the  station  for  Cadiz,  resembling  a 
palace  far  more  than  a  hive  of  human  industry  of 
rather  an  inferior  grade ;  and  also  the  ayuntamiento, 
or  city  hall,  before  referred  to  as  fronting  on  the 
palm  groves  of  the  Plaza  de  San  Fernando.  This 
latter  is  of  the  plateresque  style  (i.  e.  silversmith's 
work)  and  is  easily  one  of  the  handsomest  of  that 
ornate  variety  to  be  seen  in  Spain. 

Opening  from  its  northern  corner  is  the  Calle  de 
las  Sierpes  —  Serpent  Street  —  the  main  shopping 
highway  of  the  town.  It  is  not  a  street  in  the  full- 


SEVILLE  145 

est  sense,  but  is  rather  a  paved  footway  between 
lofty  buildings,  barred  by  posts  against  the  en- 
trance of  carriages,  and  is  in  effect  a  long  arcade 
without  an  arcade's  roof,  save  that  in  summer  it 
is  protected  from  the  glare  by  awnings.  Through 
it  flows  a  constant  tide  of  humanity.  It  is  lined 
with  handsome  shops,  caf£s,  and  clubs  —  the  latter 
thronged  with  pleasure-seekers  sipping  chocolate, 
coffee,  and  liqueurs,  and  making  the  air  resound 
with  the  steady  click  of  dominoes.  Fans,  laces,  and 
cigarettes  are  to  be  had  in  profusion  —  more 
especially  the  fans  and  cigarettes,  which  are  na- 
tive in  Seville.  As  for  fans,  no  Spanish  lady  con- 
siders her  wardrobe  complete  without  an  arsenal 
of  them,  —  it  may  be  many  dozens,  —  and  her 
skill  in  manipulating  them  is  wonderful.  Spanish 
coquetry  may  be  on  the  wane,  for  at  any  rate  one 
seldom  hears  much  mandolin  or  guitar  strumming 
under  the  casements  now;  but  skill  in  the  art  of 
the  fan  shows  no  diminution  in  the  hands  of  dark- 
eyed  senoras  trained  by  centuries  to  its  use.  One 
may  buy  all  sorts  of  them  in  the  Sierpes,  from  the 
cheap  and  gaudy  abanico  decorated  with  scenes 
from  the  bull-ring,  to  the  delicate  confection  in 
ivory  and  gauze. 

Remote  from  the  centre  of  the  town  and  its  ac- 
tivities lie  several  interesting  old  churches  and  the 
so-called  Casa  de  Pilatos,  —  Pilate's  house,  —  the 
latter  worth  decidedly  more  than  a  passing  glance. 
It  is  generally  esteemed  to  be  an  accurate  repro- 


146  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

duction  of  the  house  of  Pilate  at  Jerusalem,  al- 
though there  is  more  than  room  for  doubt  of  this. 
In  any  event,  the  ducal  founder,  in  the  true  Spanish 
fashion,  added  a  little  here  and  there  in  Catholic 
zeal ;  for  he  caused  to  be  set  up  in  one  of  the  courts 
a  reproduction  of  the  pillar  at  which  Jesus  was 
scourged.  Once  the  awestruck  visitor  used  to  be 
asked  to  believe  that  this  was  the  very  pillar  at 
which  Jesus  suffered,  the  Pope  having  bestowed 
it  on  the  founder  of  the  house  in  recognition  of  his 
piety.  The  improbability  that  any  Pope  would 
ever  consent  to  part  with  so  priceless  a  treasure, 
however,  has  caused  this  bit  of  embroidery  on  the 
tradition  to  fall  into  disuse,  and  to-day  nobody 
pretends  it  is  anything  but  a  reproduction,  —  as 
the  rest  of  the  house  is,  although  probably  not  of 
Pilate's  palace  more  than  of  any  other  in  Jerusa- 
lem. It  is,  indeed,  a  most  interesting  construction 
with  a  very  pronounced  tendency  toward  the  Moor- 
ish style,  and  some  fascinating  gardens,  which  lat- 
ter, unfortunately,  are  seldom  shown.  There  is  in 
full  view,  however,  one  of  the  most  magnificent  dis- 
plays of  bougainvillea  that  I  have  ever  seen. 

When  day  is  declining  all  the  city  goes  for  a  drive 
in  the  boulevard  of  the  Delicias  that  leads  down 
along  the  Guadalquivir  and  out  into  the  open 
country.  It  is  the  regular  thing,  when  the  heat  of 
the  afternoon  has  abated,  to  take  your  carriage,  — 
or  hire  one,  for  it  makes  no  difference,  —  pack  it 
as  full  as  possible  with  family  or  friends,  and  join 


SEVILLE  147 

the  innumerable  caravan  which  moves  along  the 
broad  highway  under  the  long  rows  of  trees.  I 
should  have  been  sorry  not  to  take  that  ride,  if  only 
to  see  Seville  relaxed  and  on  pleasure  bent;  but 
purely  as  a  ride  it  would  certainly  have  been  dis- 
appointing. The  roadway  is  uncommonly  bad,  for 
a  boulevard,  and  there  is  little  charm  in  the  scenery 
despite  its  abundance  of  trees  and  occasional  gar- 
dens. The  interest  centres  in  the  endless  procession 
of  carriages  passing  in  two  long  files  at  moderate 
pace,  one  going  and  one  returning.  It  must  be 
two  miles  from  the  beginning  of  the  boulevard  to 
the  turn,  and  the  common  practice  is  to  make  the 
circuit  several  times,  drawing  up  now  and  then  at 
the  side  of  the  road  to  see  the  rest  of  the  parade  go 
by.  Altogether  it  is  such  an  array  as  one  may  see 
from  the  penny  benches  of  Hyde  Park,  without  the 
royalty,  —  save  on  rare  occasions,  —  and  inevit- 
ably with  a  much  greater  degree  of  democracy  and 
variety  in  the  vehicles,  which  at  Seville  are  by  no 
means  confined  to  the  luxurious  carriages  of  the 
rich,  but  include  conveyances  of  every  sort  and 
kind. 

Our  personal  experiences  in  Seville  closed  with 
an  excursion  down  the  Guadalquivir,  an  expedition 
which  even  the  most  casual  visitor  should  not  be 
induced  to  omit.  It  came  to  our  attention  that  a 
little  steamer  plied  twice  a  day  between  the  docks 
at  the  Triana  bridge  and  the  tiny  town  of  Coria, 
ten  miles  or  so  downstream,  but  exact  information 


148  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

as  to  its  hours  of  departure  was  difficult  to  obtain. 
Policemen  along  the  quay,  who  must  see  the  craft 
coming  and  going  daily,  were  wholly  unable  to  tell 
us  anything  about  it,  but  hazarded  guesses  all  the 
way  from  half- past  two  to  three  in  the  afternoon. 
As  a  matter  of  precaution  we  came  at  the  former 
hour,  and  as  a  perfectly  inevitable  sequel  waited 
until  well  past  the  latter,  sweltering  under  a  broiling 
April  sun,  before  the  little  vessel  ceased  her  periodic 
whistling  and  shoved  out  into  the  river.  It  was  a 
thoroughly  delightful  sail  down  the  great  windings 
that  the  current  makes  as  it  meanders  through  im- 
mense meadows  toward  the  sea.  Even  here,  sixty- 
two  miles  from  Cadiz,  the  tide  ebbs  and  flows  with 
force,  and  as  a  result  our  several  landings  going  and 
coming  were  matters  of  nice  calculation  on  the 
part  of  the  helmsman,  the  steamer's  speed,  due  to 
the  current  alone,  being  considerable.  We  touched 
at  many  hamlets  on  the  way,  tiny  villages  whose 
low-roofed  huts  were  invariably  dominated  by  great 
bulbous  kilns  for  the  firing  of  pottery.  Here  and 
there  we  passed  great  ships  coming  up  to  town,  or 
lying  at  lofty  coal-pockets.  Sailing  craft  of  quaint 
design  floated  by  on  the  calm  bosom  of  the  mighty 
river.  Always  the  low  shore  was  fringed  by  bushes 
of  luxuriant  green  rising  close  out  of  the  muddy 
flood. 

We  had  on  board  a  motley  gathering  of  merry 
villagers  returning  from  their  marketing  in  Seville, 
most  notable  of  all  a  handsome,  self-reliant  woman 


SEVILLE  149 

with  whom  the  steamer  hands  had  much  sport, 
robbing  her  plethoric  basket  of  its  leeks  and  onions 
while  she  kept  up  a  fire  of  laughing  badinage.  It 
developed  that  she  was  the  wife  of  a  dredger  sta- 
tioned on  one  of  the  mud  floats  down  the  river  re- 
mote from  any  regular  landing,  and  it  was  her  hope 
to  save  her  spouse  a  long  and  laborious  row  against 
the  tide  by  signaling  him  in  season  to  be  met  in 
the  family  wherry  as  the  steamer  passed.  Hence 
her  good  humor  as  she  witnessed  the  pilfering  of 
her  wares,  with  the  ill-concealed  design  of  currying 
favor  with  the  captain  and  his  merry  men.  The 
latter,  however,  gave  her  a  very  bad  quarter  of  an 
hour,  insisting  that  to  stop  at  any  but  a  regular  land- 
ing was  impossible.  The  comedy  proceeded  at  a  furi- 
ous rate,  the  exchange  of  the  controversy  growing 
shriller  and  more  voluble  as  the  steamer  bore  down 
on  the  mud-scow  where  the  unsuspecting  husband 
was  at  work.  Captain  and  pilot  remained  obdurate, 
—  and  each  had  a  face  that  would  have  graced 
the  decks  of  Captain  Kidd.  It  was  then  that  the 
resourceful  passenger  took  the  law  into  her  own 
hands,  and,  dashing  around  behind  the  grinning 
steersman,  grasped  the  whistle  cord  with  a  right 
good  will,  waking  the  echoes  of  the  river-bank  with 
a  prolonged  and  vigorous  tooting  that  brought 
the  dredger  out  of  his  cabin  in  a  hurry.  He  jumped 
into  the  wherry,  shoved  out  to  midstream,  and  the 
steamer  drifted  with  the  tide  whilst  the  vociferous 
and  triumphant  woman  leaped  over  the  rail  with 


150  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

her  basket,  shouting  derision  at  the  grinning  crew 
and  bidding  them  all  "  go  along  with  God  "  to 
Coria. 

It  was  the  return  journey,  however,  that  pre- 
sented the  greater  charm.  The  sun  was  setting  in  a 
glory  of  purple  and  gold,  and  the  gentle  landscape 
of  the  Sevillian  plains  was  bathed  in  an  effulgence 
like  that  of  Murillo's  canvases.  The  tawny  river 
glided  with  such  a  tide  as,  moving,  seemed  asleep, 
-  yet  when  the  steamer  stopped  her  screw  and 
merely  drifted,  she  still  swept  silently  upstream  so 
swiftly  that  the  boatmen  must  snub  their  cables 
sharply  to  make  their  landings.  Far  away  over  the 
broad  meadows  and  soft  treetops  soared  the  ethe- 
real shaft  of  the  Giralda,  blushing  rosily  pink 
against  the  evening  sky,  above  the  grim  grayness 
of  the  giant  cathedral  and  its  massive  buttresses. 
From  scattered  cottages  among  the  trees  rose  curl- 
ing wisps  of  smoke.  Even  the  yellow  muddiness 
of  the  river  lost  itself  as  the  light  faded,  and  the 
smooth,  unruffled  surface  of  the  waters  gave  back 
the  blue  of  the  placid  sky.  In  the  calmness  of  the 
sunset  the  Giralda  glowed  down  on  the  forest  of 
masts  that  lined  the  river's  curving  brim,  and  Se- 
ville, glistening  whitely  along  the  crescent  of  the 
quay,  surrendered  herself  to  the  languorous  April 
night. 


CHAPTER  VII 

CORDOVA 

IF  one  will  but  take  the  trouble  to  scan  the  yel- 
lowed pages  of  some  of  the  older  city  directories 
published  in  New  England  forty  or  fifty  years  ago,  it 
will  be  discovered  that  the  shoemakers  and  leather- 
workers  of  that  day  were  almost  invariably  re- 
ferred to  as  "cordwainers"  ;  and  it  is  probable  that 
here  and  there  a  battered  signboard  in  the  more 
remote  villages  still  serves  to  keep  alive  that  quaint 
designation,  the  meaning  of  which  is  hardly  com- 
prehended by  the  present  race  of  New  Englanders. 
I  recall  that  my  own  youthful  imagination  pictured 
the  cordwainer  as  a  hewer  of  wood,  —  obviously  a 
notion  springing  from  a  mistaken  derivation  of  the 
word.  For  in  actuality  the  word  cordwainer  was 
merely  another  form  of  "  Cordovaner,"  —  the  man 
from  Cordova,  —  just  as  the  milliner  was  the  man 
from  Milan ;  and  the  principal  commercial  activity 
of  the  city  in  each  case  gave  a  generic  name  to  ar- 
tisans in  those  lines  everywhere.  Milliners  endure, 
however,  while  cordwainers  have  ceased  to  be  and 
have  sunk  into  an  ill-deserved  oblivion,  in  which 
course  they  have  merely  followed  the  decline  and 
fall  of  the  leather  industry  in  Cordova  herself.  For 
to-day  the  material  which  made  that  cityjamous  is 


152  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

much  better  bought  in  Morocco,  and  the  latter 
country  has  largely  supplanted  the  Spanish  city  in 
the  industry,  both  in  fact  and  in  name. 

From  Cordova  the  glory  has  departed.  She  oc- 
cupies her  ancient  site  on  a  steep  bluff  overhanging 
the  upper  reaches  of  the  yellow  Guadalquivir,  but 
retains  almost  no  vestiges  within  her  gates  to  reveal 
her  former  grandeur  as  the  chief  Mohammedan 
seat  in  Western  Europe,  apart  from  her  great 
mosque  and  its  adjoining  court  of  oranges.  Nothing 
is  left  of  her  former  proud  preeminence  in  science 
and  the  arts.  Nothing  save  the  vast  shrine  marks 
her  as  the  ancient  seat  of  the  caliphs,  who  left  be- 
hind them  no  such  secular  monument  as  one  may 
find  on  the  heights  of  the  Alhambra.  Whatever 
remained  after  the  flight  of  the  Moors  was  either 
destroyed  with  ruthless  hand  or  was  hopelessly 
marred  by  the  inept  and  over-zealous  Christian. 

Such,  at  any  rate,  was  our  first  impression  as  the 
omnibus  jolted  its  devious  way  from  the  outlying 
railroad  station  to  the  hotel,  through  a  dense  fog  of 
dust.  And  such  is  probably  the  impression  that 
most  visitors  carry  away  with  them  from  Cordova. 
All  the  world  goes  thither,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
in  passing  from  Seville  to  Madrid ;  but  it  is  probably 
a  fact  that  the  average  visitor  finds  fewer  objects  to 
interest  him  there  than  in  any  other  Spanish  city 
of  equal  importance  in  history.  And  yet,  whatever 
Cordova  may  lack  in  the  number  of  her  surviving 
treasures,  she  makes  up  in  abundant  measure  by  the 


CORDOVA  153 

impressiveness  of  what  has  been  allowed  to  endure. 
Not  even  the  lamentable  defacement  of  the  mosque 
by  the  zealous  canons  of  the  cathedral  can  be  said 
to  have  obliterated  its  ancient  charm.  It  has 
marred  it,  to  be  sure;  but  in  so  doing  it  has  em- 
phasized it  by  force  of  contrast. 

The  railway  from  Seville  threads  the  valley  of  the 
Guadalquivir,  —  a  river  no  longer  capable  of  being 
the  highway  of  commerce  that  it  was  seen  to  be 
below  the  Seville  bridges,  but  a  broad  and  shallow 
stream,  brawling  in  a  turbid  flood  over  frequent 
rapids,  lined  with  bare  meadows  and  dun  bluffs. 
We  leaned  from  the  windows  of  the  leisurely  train 
to  catch  the  last  glimpses  of  the  great  cathedral  of 
Seville  towering  out  of  the  houses  of  the  city  and 
dominated  by  the  slender  bulk  of  the  Giralda. 
More  than  ever  did  it  seem  the  elephant  amidst  the 
sheep  that  Gautier  thought  it,  and  the  appropriate- 
ness of  his  simile  increased  as  the  city  receded.  We 
were  still  riding  second  class,  and  the  compart- 
ments were  filled  with  a  heterogeneous  multitude. 
It  was  a  curious  car,  separated  as  always  by  trans- 
verse benches,  but  open  above  their  backs  so  that 
one  could  see  from  one  end  to  the  other,  and  if  need 
be  climb  over  the  backs  of  the  seats.  One  agile  and 
good-humored  native  did  so,  to  help  an  aged  dame 
open  a  window,  —  mirabile  dictu!  For  the  day  was 
hot  and  even  the  native  passengers  condescended  to 
admit  a  little  of  the  outer  air  to  mingle  with,  and 
mitigate,  the  garlic  and  cigarette  smoke.  It  was  a 


154  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

curious  gathering  with  curious  baggage.  Many  of 
the  faces  were  of  the  type  more  commonly  found  in 
the  third-class  coaches,  —  and  I  suspect  they  right- 
fully belonged  there.  All  regulations,  however, 
break  down  in  an  overcrowded  train,  and  we  jogged 
along  harmoniously  enough,  accompanied  by  a 
most  wonderful  assortment  of  valises,  sacks,  crates 
of  terrified  and  blinking  poultry,  a  brace  of  caged 
rabbits,  a  dog  of  dubious  lineage,  and  a  singing 
bird.  Everybody  smoked,  and  nearly  all  produced 
parcels  of  food  and  leathern  flasks.  Meantime  the 
train  skirted  the  winding  valley,  pausing  here  and 
there  for  the  usual  lengthy  halts,  crossing  and  re- 
crossing  the  river  on  clattering  bridges,  burrowing 
under  hills  topped  with  ruined  Moorish  castles,  and 
finally,  with  a  prolonged  shrieking  of  the  whistle, 
dashed  into  Cordova  and  disgorged  by  far  the 
greater  portion  of  its  human  freight. 

Of  rain  there  had  been  none  for  some  time,  and 
the  streets  were  inch  deep  in  a  fine,  powdery  dust 
which  rose  from  the  passing  vehicles  and  settled  in 
a  white  film  over  the  shrubbery  of  the  station 
grounds.  The  afternoon  sun  beat  down  mercilessly 
on  the  highways  whose  glare  the  new  spring  verdure 
hardly  sufficed  to  relieve.  They  were  not  interesting 
streets  through  which  the  'bus  clattered,  but  were 
painfully  bare  and  ugly  and  new.  An  effort  had 
been  made  to  line  them  with  gardens,  and  in  a  later, 
or  a  moister,  season  they  would  doubtless  have 
relieved  the  general  effect;  but  on  this  April  day 


CORDOVA  155 

they  were  parched  and  discouraged  by  the  unseason- 
able warmth  and  the  long  lack  of  rain.  Only  when 
the  carriage  swerved  with  a  jerk  which  took  the 
outer  wheels  off  the  ground  and  entered  a  livelier 
thoroughfare,  did  the  prospect  improve.  It  was  a 
broad  boulevard  bearing  the  name  of  that  doughty 
warrior  of  the  town,  Gonsalvo  de  Cordoba,  yclept 
the  "Gran  Capitan."  Its  centre  was  a  broad  and 
well-shaded  promenade  wherein  all  Cordova  ap- 
peared to  be  gathered.  The  adjacent  cafes  were 
full,  and  the  clicking  of  dominoes  rose  above  the 
clatter  of  the  wheels.  It  was  out  of  this  hurly-burly 
that  we  soon  turned  into  a  narrow  lane,  wide  enough 
for  but  one  carriage  at  a  time,  and  jolted  our  way 
over  its  stony  pavement  to  the  yawning  portals  of 
the  Hotel  Suisse,  —  a  cleanly  house,  withal,  but,  as 
we  subsequently  discovered,  expensive  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  size  of  the  city. 

We  were  in  the  heart  of  Cordova  now,  and  the 
garishness  of  the  boulevards  gave  place  to  some- 
thing much  better,  —  the  devious  byways  of  an 
old  Moorish  city,  high-walled  and  shaded  against 
the  noontide,  and  by  the  same  token  well  shielded 
in  winter  against  the  icy  blasts  of  the  north.  Men 
walked  in  the  cool  darkness  where  the  shadow  fell 
sharply  on  the  gleaming  white  of  the  neighboring 
walls.  A  succession  of  these  narrow  ways  led  toward 
the  cathedral,  and  we  plunged  into  them,  guided 
by  faith  rather  than  by  sight,  and  pursued  by  an 
officious  individual,  who  was  uniformed  as  a  guide. 


156  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

He  was  a  most  persistent  fellow,  who  seemed  to 
fathom  our  specious  air  of  nonchalant  familiarity 
with  the  tortuous  streets  as  something  assumed 
entirely  for  his  benefit ;  and  when  we  halted  in  very 
real  perplexity  at  the  foot  of  the  Calle  de  Jesus 
Maria,  he  laughed  us  to  scorn  and  disappeared  from 
view.  Thereafter  we  were  more  free  to  follow  our 
own  noses. 

The  Calle  de  Jesus  Maria,  by  the  way,  may  serve 
to  cause  us  a  moment's  digression  to  consider  the 
pious  nomenclature  so  common  among  Spanish 
cities  and  families.  To  the  pure  nothing  is  blasphe- 
mous in  Spain.  "Love  of  God  Street,"  the  " Street 
of  Jesus  and  Mary,"  and  such  like  things  are  to  be 
met  everywhere.  With  a  high  disregard  of  sex  the 
man-child  is  likely  to  be  named  Jesus  Maria.  Nor 
does  the  Spaniard  esteem  it  a  sin  to  swear  roundly 
in  a  way  that  would  shock  a  moderately  religious 
American.  And  they  are  such  comprehensive  oaths ! 
The  Spaniard  does  not  swear  by  heaven;  neither 
by  the  earth.  He  swears  by  the  Name  of  God,  by 
God  Himself,  by  the  Mother  of  God,  by  the  whole 
Holy  Family,  —  Jesus,  Maria  y  Jose  I  Generally  he 
means  no  ill.  We  knew  later  a  charming  senorita  of 
eighteen  in  Madrid  who  was  struggling  with  the 
rudiments  of  English  grammar  and  whose  efforts 
were  constantly  interlarded  with  the  prettiest  little 
oaths  imaginable,  astounding  and  terrible  when 
translated,  but  spoken  in  the  innocence  of  a  thor- 
oughly reverent  and  maidenly  soul.  A  vicious 


CORDOVA  157 

"darn"  in  the  mouth  of  a  scrupulous  New  Eng- 
lander  would  have  far  more  profanity  in  it  than 
Senorita  Rosario's  most  despairing  dios  mio.  Still 
further  to  digress,  since  we  have  spoken  of  the  Seno- 
rita Rosario,  her  name  and  such  names  as  Dolores, 
Mercedes,  and  the  like,  reveal  still  further  the  pas- 
sion of  the  Spaniard  for  holy  names ;  and  not  con- 
tent with  the  simple  Maria,  he  employs  a  score  of 
her  saintly  attributes,  —  all  of  which  is  leading  us 
far  afield. 

The  Calle  de  Jesus  Maria  turned  out,  appropri- 
ately enough,  to  lead  to  the  cathedral,  where  God  is 
now  worshiped  in  a  fane  once  consecrated  to  Allah, 
the  demons  of  paganism  being  duly  exorcised  by 
marking  a  huge  cross  in  the  centre  of  the  building 
in  the  shape  of  a  surpassingly  ugly  choir  and  tran- 
septs, which,  with  the  inevitable  capilla  mayor, 
constitute  the  cathedral  of  to-day.  It  is  a  veritable 
house  in  the  woods,  a  great  church  erected  in  the 
midst  of  a  low  building  composed  of  an  acre  or  so  of 
those  slender  Moorish  pillars  which  invariably  give 
the  effect  of  low-branching  trees.  Looking  down 
upon  the  ground-plan  of  it,  one  sees  it  as  a  cross 
in  the  centre  of  the  ancient  building.  But  seeing  it 
as  the  actual  beholder  must  from  the  floor  of  the 
mosque,  it  resembles  nothing  so  much  as  a  rather 
intrusive  building  set  in  a  dense  grove  of  saplings ; 
and  the  screens  of  the  choir  serve  to  block  the  view 
in  a  manner  even  more  irritating  than  is  usually  the 
case.  On  every  side  of  the  Christian  church  proper, 


158  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

stretches  the  old  shrine  of  the  Moors,  its  vistas  of 
pillars  reaching  away  to  what  seem  like  illimitable 
distances,  shrouded  in  steadily  increasing  gloom. 

No  other  church  in  Spain  has  so  magnificent  a 
cathedral  close.  The  court  of  oranges  at  Seville, 
fragrant  and  beautiful  as  it  is,  cannot  be  compared 
with  the  court  at  Cordova.  As  at  Seville,  one  gains 
no  adequate  idea  of  it  from  without.  It  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  massive  cincture  of  stone  resembling 
a  fortress,  battlemented  and  strengthened  by  mas- 
sive buttresses.  Only  at  a  single  point  does  it  give 
any  outward  and  visible  evidence  of  its  inward  and 
spiritual  character;  namely,  where  the  massive 
bell  tower  rises  above  the  Gate  of  Pardon  near  the 
street  of  Cespedes. 

It  was  from  that  narrow  thoroughfare  that  we 
emerged  after  some  wandering  on  our  first  afternoon 
in  Cordova,  and  stood  marveling  at  the  curious 
outworks  of  the  cathedral.  The  great  gate  was 
closed,  the  outer  surface  of  its  mighty  doors  studded 
with  metal  scales  and  bosses.  Towering  three  hun- 
dred feet  or  so  above  it  was  the  campanile,  shorn  of 
every  Moorish  semblance.  The  archway  of  the  gate, 
however,  was  of  the  traditional  horseshoe  form, 
and  might  easily  have  passed  for  Arab  workmanship 
had  not  authority  existed  for  holding  it  a  mere 
Christian  copy  of  the  very  similar  gate  at  Seville. 
With  the  massive  bell  tower  above,  it  is  far  more 
impressive  than  its  more  ancient  original. 

Comparatively    few  of    the  gates    which    once 


COURT  OF  ORANGES,  CORDOVA 


CORDOVA  159 

pierced  this  outer  bulwark  of  Islam  now  remain. 
Where  once  there  were  twenty-one  portals  there 
are  now  but  a  dozen,  distributed  along  the  various 
sides  of  the  great  square  court,  showing  ample 
traces  of  their  Moslem  origin.  Through  such  as 
stand  open  one  may  from  the  streets  outside  gain 
some  little  idea  of  the  beauty  within,  —  a  beauty 
entirely  out  of  accord  with  the  grimness  of  the  in- 
closing walls.  And  yet  the  walls  are  not  without 
their  claims  to  interest,  containing  as  they  do  some 
bits  of  ancient  Roman  milestones  and  many  frag- 
ments of  Moorish  ornamentation. 

When  we  presented  ourselves  before  the  Gate  of 
Pardon  it  was  after  five  of  the  clock,  and  according 
to  all  authority  the  mosque  should  be  closed  for  the 
day.  But  a  peasant  disappearing  down  a  narrow 
flight  of  stairs  through  a  small  postern  adjoining 
the  greater  gate  led  us  also  gingerly  to  thrust  feet 
into  the  coolness  of  a  gloomy  passage  and  to  follow 
him  into  a  new  and  different  world.  For  the  broad 
court  of  oranges  lay  bathed  in  evening  sunlight. 
The  glossy  green  of  the  leaves  contrasted  charm- 
ingly with  the  gold  of  the  ripening  fruit.  The  air 
was  heavy  with  perfume.  Row  after  row  of  an- 
cient trees  led  in  broad  aisles  down  to  the  walls  of 
the  mosque,  out  of  the  low  roof  of  which  towered 
the  present  church,  far  within.  On  every  side  of  the 
courtyard  ran  a  cloister;  and  dominating  it  all  the 
graceful  tower  —  graceful  despite  its  sturdiness  - 
soared  above  the  fronds  of  a  gigantic  palm.  Bells 


i6o  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

clamored  a  melodious  chorus  in  the  arches  high 
above.  At  the  fountains  of  the  court  picturesque 
groups  of  women  filled  their  water  jars.  Shouting 
children  romped  in  the  shade  of  the  trees.  Every- 
where was  warmth  and  beauty  and  sweetness  and 
Spanish  life  at  its  best  and  gayest. 

In  the  distant  days  of  the  caliphs,  this  had  been 
the  court  of  ablution ;  for  the  Moor,  among  his  other 
excellences,  was  a  cleanly  creature,  and  his  religion 
enjoined  the  washing  of  the  body  to  a  degree  which 
his  Spanish  successors  on  the  spot  might  emulate 
with  great  profit.  The  sad  fact  seems  to  be  that 
bathing  and  the  worship  of  Allah  were  simultane- 
ously abandoned,  and  the  excessive  amplitude  of 
Maria  de  Padilla's  bath  has  been  atoned  for  by  the 
abolishment  of  such  pagan  utilities  altogether  as 
being  something  essentially  Moorish,  —  and  there- 
fore, of  course,  of  the  devil !  So  worshipers  no  longer 
bathe  in  the  court  of  oranges  before  proceeding  to 
the  church;  but  water  gushes  from  the  fountains 
as  of  old,  and  the  groups  of  women  with  their  jars 
are  constantly  changing. 

In  original  usage,  therefore,  as  well  as  in  design, 
the  court  of  oranges  was  really  an  integral  part  of 
the  scheme  of  the  mosque.  Its  files  of  orange  trees 
merely  prolonged  the  rows  of  marble  columns  out 
into  the  open,  and  opposite  every  avenue  in  the 
orchard  an  archway  led  into  the  pillared  groves  of 
the  building  itself.  Most  of  these  arches  have  been 
filled  with  brick,  surmounted  by  lunettes  of  out- 


CORDOVA  161 

rageous  green  and  yellow  glass.  Only  one  of  the 
original  nineteen  portals  serves  as  a  gateway  now, 
and  all  the  beauty  of  the  orange  grove  disappears 
the  moment  one  steps  within.  It  is  one  more  evi- 
dence of  the  wretched  disfigurement  worked  by 
Christian  hands  in  the  name  of  improved  religion, 
and  the  wonder  is  that  the  mosque  bears  it  so  well. 
Those  garishly  glazed  windows  are  enough  to  kill 
anything  but  an  essentially  immortal  work  of 
architecture. 

No  other  surviving  religious  monument  of  the 
Moslems  in  Spain  can  compare  with  the  mosque  of 
Cordova.  It  was  the  chief  mosque  of  the  western 
world,  and  in  its  prime  was  only  second  in  size  to 
the  famous  Kaaba  at  Mecca.  This  magnitude  and 
grandeur  was  by  no  means  reached  in  a  day,  how- 
ever. The  original  mosque  was  but  a  small  affair, 
and  supplanted  a  primitive  Christian  temple  on 
the  same  site.  But  as  the  wealth  and  importance 
of  Cordova  increased  under  Moorish  rule,  caliph 
after  caliph  added  to  the  building,  pushing  always 
toward  the  south  until  the  river  bluff  became  too 
steep  for  further  amplification  in  that  line,  and 
forced  future  extensions  to  spread  toward  the  east. 
Two  hundred  years  after  the  building  was  begun, 
in  990  A.  D.,  the  mosque  stood  complete,  and  rivaled 
in  size  and  grandeur  the  grand  chief  shrine  of  all 
Islam.  Its  columns  numbered  well  over  a  thou- 
sand, of  every  sort  of  stone,  —  porphyry,  jasper, 
marble,  breccia,  —  which  tradition  insists  came 


162  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

from  every  part  of  the  known  world,  although  it 
seems  probable  that  most  of  them  were  quarried 
in  Spain.  Each  pillar  bore  up  a  horseshoe  arch  and 
above  this  vast  collocation  of  arches  ran  a  second 
row  supporting  the  roof.  None  of  the  shafts  meas- 
ured more  than  thirteen  feet,  and  as  a  consequence 
the  whole  roof  is  very  low.  Most  of  the  light  comes 
from  the  windows  on  the  side  of  the  court,  and 
the  distances  are  dim  and  obscure.  The  oriental 
effect  of  the  interior  is  heightened  by  the  painted 
decoration  of  the  arches  in  red  and  white  bands, 
—  a  device  which  may  not  be  altogether  fortunate 
because  it  produces  an  effect  somewhat  like  that  of 
bunting.  But  if  one  can  overcome  the  illusion  that 
this  is  a  temporary  structure  decked  out  for  the 
uses  of  a  Grand  Army  fair,  it  will  be  seen  that  it 
preserves  the  effect  of  an  Arab  building  despite  its 
spoliation  by  the  triumphant  Catholics.  The  roof 
is  no  longer  satisfactory,  having  been  restored  with 
but  poor  success,  but  in  the  general  gloom  of  the 
place  one  scarcely  notices  that.  As  for  the  actual 
church  now  used  by  Christian  worshipers,  perhaps 
the  less  said  of  it  the  better.  It  is,  indeed,  light 
and  airy  while  the  rest  is  dark  and  chilly,  but  it  is 
hopelessly  out  of  harmony  with  its  setting.  Even 
Charles  V,  under  whose  permission  the  work  was 
done,  expressed  appropriate  disgust  at  the  result, 
remarking  that  the  canons,  in  building  what  any- 
body else  could  have  built,  had  destroyed  a  building 
that  could  never  again  be  duplicated.  And  yet, 


CORDOVA  163 

as  we  have  already  seen,  Charles  himself  did  even 
worse  at  Granada  without  the  shadow  of  an  excuse, 
—  whereas  the  priests  of  Cordova  could  at  least 
plead  that  their  liturgy  demanded  the  erection  of 
an  altar  and  the  choir. 

It  is  on  the  farther  side  of  the  mosque,  remote 
from  the  present  site  of  worship,  that  the  greatest 
magnificence  is  to  be  found,  where  still  remain 
the  prayer  niches  (mihrabs)  with  their  wonderfully 
vaulted  ceilings  and  their  rich  incrustations  of 
mosaic.  These,  however,  one  is  forced  to  see  in 
the  company  of  a  sacristan  with  a  taper. 

Naturally  there  has  been  great  question  as  to  the 
means  of  lighting  so  vast  and  so  low-roofed  a  struc- 
ture in  the  days  when  it  served  as  a  mosque  and 
when  no  lofty  church  set  in  its  centre  served  to  let 
a  flood  of  light  into  its  very  midst.  The  roof  was 
certainly  not  pierced  with  windows,  and  at  no  place 
was  it  more  than  thirty  feet  above  the  floor,  —  a 
surprisingly  low  altitude  when  the  vast  expanse  of 
the  floor  space  is  considered.  It  has  been  suggested, 
however,  that  possibly,  besides  the  nineteen  arches 
open  toward  the  court  of  oranges,  there  may  have 
been  an  open  colonnade  above  them  on  the  other 
sides,  helping  to  illuminate  the  innermost  depths 
of  the  centre.  Nevertheless  it  must  always  have 
been  a  dimly  lighted  spot,  and  cool  even  on  the 
hottest  days  of  summer.  In  April,  at  sermon-time, 
I  can  testify  to  its  chilliness,  even  to-day ;  for  we 
stood  through  a  long  hour  listening  to  an  eloquent 


164  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

discourse  by  an  impassioned  and  gesticulating  friar, 
held  there  by  his  animation  rather  than  by  what 
we  caught  of  his  words,  and  came  out  chilled  to  the 
marrow.  What  wonder  that  the  whole  Spanish 
nation  suffers  from  a  racking  cough?  All  through 
the  country,  north  and  south  alike,  we  found  the 
populace  suffering  from  distressing  colds,  sneezing, 
coughing,  snuffling,  — and,  what  was  worse,  spread- 
ing the  distemper  by  the  carelessness  of  their  habits 
in  public  places  and  railway  coaches.  It  was  not 
without  reason  that  James  Howell  uttered  his 
sententious  dictum,  before  quoted,  as  to  the  need 
of  being  phlegmatic  in  Castile!  Apparently  cen- 
turies of  environment  have  not  acclimated  the 
Spaniard  to  his  own  land.  He  pays  the  penalty  of 
sudden  changes  from  hot  days  to  cold  nights,  from 
blazing  streets  to  frigid  churches  and  unwarmed 
houses,  damp  and  ill-ventilated. 

There  is  one  other  awe-compelling  feature  to 
divide  the  honors  with  the  mosque  as  being  Cor- 
dova's chief est  attraction,  and  that  is  the  great 
bridge  over  the  Guadalquivir.  Subsequently  we 
saw  many  such  in  other  parts  of  Spain,  always  old 
and  yellow  and  many-arched,  defended  at  either 
end  by  massive  towers.  This  at  Cordova  is  mainly 
Moorish  in  construction,  although  the  foundations 
were  laid  by  Rome.  Crossing  its  dusty  roadway  to 
the  farther  bank,  one  may  obtain  what  is  probably 
the  very  best  general  view  of  the  city,  the  town 
rising  steeply  from  the  muddy  river  on  its  undu- 


CORDOVA  165 

lating  bluffs,  the  cathedral  with  its  campanile  dom- 
inating the  picture,  while  in  the  foreground  lies  the 
hoary  old  bridge  striding  across  the  shallow  but 
very  spacious  and  very  turbid  waters  of  the  stream. 
Below,  still  used  and  operated,  lie  some  picturesque 
Moorish  mills. 

But  apart  from  the  mosque  and  the  ancient 
bridge,  Cordova,  it  must  be  confessed,  has  rather 
few  lions  to  show.  A  massive  and  picturesque  al- 
cazar to  the  southward  of  the  city  is  interesting  in 
itself,  and  lends  a  striking  contrast  to  the  scene  as 
between  the  old  and  new.  Still  the  most  attractive 
thing  about  Cordova,  after  her  major  sights,  lies 
in  her  winding  streets  with  the  innumerable  patios 
that  open  from  them.  The  doors  generally  stand 
ajar,  and  as  a  rule  you  are  welcome  to  enter.  As 
always,  the  exterior  of  the  Cordovan  house  is  ex- 
cessively plain,  and  the  luxuriance  and  beauty  of 
these  inner  courts  is  in  lively  contrast  with  the 
outer  view.  Looking  into  these  fascinating  interiors 
was  a  pastime  of  which  we  never  tired,  although 
sometimes  we  ventured  in  with  the  furtive  timidity 
of  children,  fearful  of  intruding  where  invasion  was 
not  desired.  They  were  so  cool  and  clean  and  so 
fragrant,  these  patios  of  Cordova.  Their  colors 
were  so  brilliant,  and  they  were  so  quiet  after  the 
rattle  of  carts  over  the  stones  of  the  narrow  streets 
—  streets  so  narrow  that  every  corner  must  bear 
a  printed  signboard  to  mark  it  as  either  an  entrance 
or  an  exit  for  vehicles,  owing  to  the  utter  impossi- 


166  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

bility  of  passing.  Of  architectural  beauty  we  found 
very  little,  but  that  little  was  worth  searching  out, 
—  a  courtyard  here,  a  portal  there,  the  tower  of 
some  quaint  old  church  yonder,  ever  and  anon 
through  streets  that  twisted  and  turned  blindly 
among  white-walled  houses,  up  and  down  steep 
little  hills  in  the  city's  midst.  There  were  seemingly 
few  shops,  and  yet  those  that  we  saw  were  of  a 
remarkable  neatness,  notably  those  dealing  in  gro- 
ceries and  foods. 

"From  the  deathlike  stillness  of  Cordova/'  re- 
marks Sir  Augustus  Hare,  "it  is  a  strange  transi- 
tion to  the  animation  and  bustle  of  Seville."  And 
Richard  Hutton,  also  speaking  of  Seville,  similarly 
contrasts  the  bustle  of  that  lively  city  with  "that 
almost  morbid  impression  of  stillness  and  silence 
that  the  traveler  finds  everywhere  in  Cordova." 
It  was  with  these  placid  sentiments  in  mind  that 
we  sought  repose  on  our  first  night  in  the  city  in  the 
upper  rooms  of  our  inn,  after  a  long  and  imposing 
table  d'hote.  But  Cordova,  whatever  she  might 
have  been  by  day,  was  by  night  anything  but  a 
place  of  deathlike  silence.  The  hollow  cavern  of 
the  street  gave  back  the  rumble  of  passing  wagons 
at  intervals  throughout  the  night,  —  intervals 
nicely  contrived  to  catch  the  would-be  sleeper  doz- 
ing off  into  his  dreams  of  mosques  and  Moors  and 
minarets.  Between  the  recurrent  visits  of  omni- 
buses and  carts,  the  population  of  the  city  paraded 
its  way  up  and  down  under  our  windows,  never  by 


CORDOVA  167 

any  chance  alone,  but  by  twos  and  threes;  and 
never  by  any  fortune  silent,  but  laughing,  shouting, 
singing,  quarreling,  debating.  The  fifty-seven  thou- 
sand people  Baedeker  accredited  to  the  city  seemed 
to  our  troubled  minds  to  be  marching  and  counter- 
marching past  the  hotel  all  night  in  an  endless  pro- 
cession like  the  Roman  legionaries  in  an  opera. 
All  the  traditional  remedies  for  insomnia  failed  dis- 
mally. Flocks  of  sheep  that  lazily  passed  by  could 
not  subdue  the  consciousness  of  the  noisy  flocks  of 
lazily  passing  Cordovaners.  Neither  poppy  nor 
mandragora  could  cope  with  the  stern  reality  of 
busy  mosquitoes  from  the  Guadalquivir.  As  had 
been  the  case  at  Seville,  these  latter  pests  were 
sought  to  be  held  at  bay  by  "bars"  of  netting, 
but  the  effect  of  these  was  merely  to  bother  the 
mosquito  and  stifle  the  victim.  Nothing  could 
drown  the  irritating  noises  of  the  night,  the  stroll- 
ing thousands,  the  late  omnibuses,  the  melody  of 
a  distant  cinematograph.  Seville  had  been  noisy 
with  her  constant  passing  of  carriages,  her  grinding, 
squealing  electric  cars,  —  but  Cordova  was  vastly 
more  irritating  because  the  noises  were  intermit- 
tent. I  still  believe  that  night  in  Cordova  to  have 
been  as  uncomfortable  as  any  we  passed  in  all 
Spain.  I  have  since  been  awakened  many  times 
in  country  towns  by  the  sereno  calling  the  hours 
and  telling  his  auditors  somewhat  of  the  night;  I 
have  huddled  in  cheerless  railway  fondas  at  mid- 
night over  stoves  that  held  fire  without  giving 


168  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

warmth;  I  have  jolted  all  night  over  rough  road- 
beds in  primitive  railway  cars ;  but  I  believe  them 
all  to  have  been  nights  of  peace  and  pleasantness 
compared  with  that  first  attempt  to  sleep  in  sleep- 
less Cordova  amid  the  tumult  of  the  Calle  Horna- 
chuelos. 

But  let  us  not  traduce  Cordova  or  regret  one  wake- 
ful moment  spent  there.  The  mosque  was  worth 
them  all,  and  would  have  been  even  without  the 
splendid  old  bridge  and  those  smiling  multitudes 
of  patios.  It  was  pleasant  to  visit  them  all,  again 
and  again,  but  those  dim  aisles  and  red-banded 
arches  of  the  Mohammedan  temple  are  the  things 
that  now  seem  most  vivid  of  our  Cordovan  memo- 
ries, —  more  vivid  even  than  the  recollection  of 
that  pleasant  orange  grove  with  the  crowds  of  chil- 
dren and  women  with  water  jars.  When  service  in 
the  church  was  done,  the  priests,  canons,  acolytes, 
and  churchly  dignitaries  of  high  degree  in  full  re- 
galia were  wont  to  march  in  stately  procession 
about  the  sacred  edifice,  their  varied  vestments 
blending  with  the  changing  hues  of  the  pillars 
through  which  they  wound  their  way,  chanting  the 
while  in  a  deeply  monotonous  bass.  This  long  file 
of  men,  long-robed  and  filling  the  air  with  song,  los- 
ing itself  and  reappearing  among  the  narrow  aisles, 
now  enveloped  in  shadow,  now  plashed  with  a  slant- 
ing ray  of  sunlight,  went  far  to  make  vivid  the  im- 
pression of  being  in  some  dense  forest  in  some  bygone 
age,  witnessing  some  ceremonial  of  a  mystic  rite. 


CORDOVA  169 

We  cast  about  one  hot  Sunday  afternoon  for  some 
suburban  excursion  which  should  take  us  on  a  long 
walk  into  the  country,  and  finally  selected  one 
which  the  guidebooks  described  as  "less  impor- 
tant," but  well  within  the  reach  of  hardened  pedes- 
trians. It  was  to  be  to  the  convent  of  San  Jeronimo, 
now  used  as  an  asylum  for  the  insane,  but  said 
to  be  interesting.  We  never  found  it,  as  it  turned 
out ;  but  instead  we  stumbled  quite  by  accident  on 
the  lofty  hermitage  of  Valparaiso, — a  point  which 
we  had  despaired  of  attaining  because  of  its  dis- 
tance from  town.  I  should  certainly  not  advise  any 
one  to  attempt  the  walk  for  pleasure,  because  it 
involves  so  long  a  tramp  across  a  level  and  dusty 
plain  before  one  comes  to  the  foot  of  the  sierras  on 
top  of  which  the  monastery  stands.  That  we  our- 
selves accomplished  it  was  due  to  the  fact  that  we 
were  adrift  on  the  vegas  of  Cordova  with  no  chart 
or  compass,  and  little  realized  the  magnitude  of  the 
task  until  we  finally  staggered,  footsore  and  weary, 
into  the  hotel  at  nightfall. 

All  went  merrily  on  the  way  out.  We  passed  the 
station,  swung  out  into  a  broad  meadow  where  a 
grass-grown  cart-track  invited  us  toward  the  distant 
hills  through  a  lush  growth  of  herbage  and  myriad 
wild-flowers,  such  as  cistus  and  orchids,  and  then  be- 
gan a  climb  over  low  foothills  where  stood  scattered 
farms.  These  were  protected  by  perfect  hordes  of 
dogs,  but  obliging  women  drove  them  off  and  in- 
sisted on  accompanying  us  up  the  slope  until  we 


170  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

found  the  highroad  that  led  ever  upward  to  the 
monastery.  It  began  to  dawn  on  us  that  this  could 
not  be  San  Jeronimo  at  all,  but  must  be  the  hermit- 
age that  Baedeker  had  so  discouraged  us  from  visit- 
ing. A  path  verged  from  the  road  and  made  for  the 
top  of  the  most  promising  peak,  so  we  obediently 
followed  it,  little  caring  whither  it  led  if  only  that 
some  end  might  be.  It  was  steep  and  difficult 
enough,  over  shelves  in  the  mountain-side,  around 
great  boulders,  and  sometimes  up  breakneck  natural 
steps;  but  we  pushed  on  and  were  rewarded  at  the 
top,  after  a  scramble  through  a  narrow  gully,  by 
finding  ourselves  suddenly  at  the  monastery  gate 
with  Cordova's  spacious  plains  at  our  feet. 

It  was  a  well-protected  establishment.  All 
around  it,  even  where  the  hillside  was  so  steep  as  to 
be  inaccessible,  ran  a  tall  white  wall.  But  there  was 
a  great  gate  with  a  wicket  and  a  bell,  which  latter 
we  boldly  rang;  and  with  the  result  that  at  last  a 
brown  friar  came,  bearded  and  cowled,  peered  at  us 
suspiciously  through  the  wicket  with  one  brilliant 
black  eye,  —  at  least  as  black  as  any  Barbary  cor- 
sair's, —  and  then  let  us  in.  We  had  expected  the 
senoras  would  be  refused  admittance,  but  appar- 
ently this  was  no  such  stern  order.  He  gladly  got 
us  water  from  a  mountain  well  to  refresh  our 
parched  and  dusty  throats,  and  then  conducted  us 
over  the  grounds,  which  were  spacious  and  ran  off 
indefinitely  over  the  mountain-side,  with  buildings 
scattered  here  and  there.  All  about  were  solemn 


CORDOVA  171 

cypresses,  twin  rows  which  lined  a  gently  ascending 
avenue  along  the  ridge.  The  scattered  buildings 
appeared  to  be  small  individual  houses,  one  for  each 
brother,  built  of  stone  and  cleanly  whitewashed; 
and  far  away,  glistening  among  the  trees,  was  a 
diminutive  chapel.  One  of  the  monk's  houses  was 
shown  us,  —  a  spare  one,  available  for  guests.  It 
was  a  tiny  affair  of  two  rooms,  very  bare  but  spot- 
lessly clean,  one  a  sleeping  room  of  truly  monastic 
simplicity,  and  the  other  a  living  room  with  a  table, 
a  chair,  and  a  crucifix;  nothing  more.  A  visitor 
might  abide  there  and  welcome,  remarked  the  friar, 
but  few  ever  came.  Within  a  year — the  brother 
swelled  with  visible  pride  —  the  king  had  been  a 
transitory  guest,  and  had  eaten  luncheon  on  the 
very  terrace  where  we  were  standing. 

Surely  it  was  fit  for  a  king,  that  view  on  every 
hand  over  the  plain,  the  distant  hills,  the  winding 
valley  of  the  Guadalquivir.  Long  rays  of  evening 
sunlight  streamed  down  the  deep  glens  of  the  west- 
ern mountains  at  our  backs  into  the  great  green 
meadows,  and  gilded  the  domes  and  towers  of 
Cordova  far  away.  Meantime  the  brown  brother 
babbled  on,  unmindful  that  we  comprehended 
about  one  word  in  every  dozen.  Were  we  Germans? 
No?  French,  then?  Surely  not  Italian?  American, 
—  south  or  north  ?  Ah,  North  Americans,  and  from 
the  United  States !  —  the  brother  hesitated,  and  I 
felt  for  a  moment  that  I  detected  a  sinister  aversion 
in  those  Barbary  eyes,  which  glimmered  for  a  mo- 


i?2  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

ment  and  was  gone.  I  gave  him  a  peseta,  and  he 
bowed  us  out  with  quiet  dignity,  but  I  still  feel  that 
he  would  have  preferred  us  to  be  Germans. 

It  was  not  a  delectable  walk  home,  after  we  had 
left  the  hills  and  elected  to  adhere  to  the  highroad 
all  the  way  instead  of  trusting  ourselves  to  the  dim 
uncertainties  of  that  vast  and  silent  plain  with  its 
deserted  cart-track.  The  books  had  told  us  that 
" bandits  were  not  unknown"  in  the  hills  we  had 
just  quitted,  although  it  was  nowhere  recorded  that 
any  one  had  ever  seen  such  a  person  there.  Anyway, 
the  highroad  was  new  ground,  and  we  would  ven- 
ture it  for  sheer  variety.  But  it  was  tedious  and 
uninteresting,  and  we  regained  Cordova  at  dusk 
well  wearied.  Go  out,  then,  to  the  Eremitas,  by 
all  means,  gentle  reader,  and  climb  to  it  on  foot 
over  the  mountain  path.  But  ride  to  its  foot,  and 
above  all  ride  home  again.  So  says  the  voice  of 
experience. 

Our  own  ramble  proved  to  be  the  prelude  to  a 
strenuous  night.  It  was  our  last  day  in  Cordova, 
and  the  ride  thence  to  Madrid  was  to  be  made  on 
the  night  train, — the  usual  thing,  and,  with  all  its 
discomforts,  still  easily  the  best.  The  station  was 
gloomy  and  gusty,  as  well  as  ill  lighted  by  flaring 
gas  and  oil  lamps  which  repeatedly  blew  out  in  the 
night  wind  and  left  us  all  shivering  in  the  darkness. 
The  ticket  offices  were  deserted,  and  in  the  high- 
backed  settles  of  the  waiting  rooms  isolated  porters, 
stretched  at  full  length,  snored  heavily.  Every- 


CORDOVA  173 

where  was  the  penetrating  chill  of  the  Spanish 
night,  more  penetrating  than  ever  because  of  the 
tempestuous  breeze  that  swept  the  cavernous  sta- 
tion from  end  to  end. 

But  the  "rapide,"  when  it  came,  proved  to  be  a 
splendid  modern  train  with  brilliantly  lighted  cor- 
ridor cars  and  ample  room, — for  a  wonder.  It  was 
one  of  those  limited  expresses  in  which  one  pays  an 
extra  fare  for  his  seat  and  on  which  it  is  occasionally 
quite  impossible  to  get  any  seat  at  all,  for  love  or 
money.  But  to-night  it  was  quite  true,  as  the  som- 
nolent ticket-vender  had  remarked,  that  there  were 
poca  gente  abroad,  and  we  curled  up  to  rest  in  a 
broad  compartment  with  two  pleasant  French  gen- 
tlemen for  company.  We  started  with  doors  open  to 
the  air,  but  before  long  the  train  had  climbed  into 
highlands  where  the  atmosphere  was  nipping  and 
eager,  so  that  everything  was  sealed  up  in  true 
European  fashion,  and  each  cowered  shivering  in 
overcoats  and  rugs.  The  two  Frenchmen  soon 
snored  apace,  and  the  rest  feigned  a  slumber  that 
I  fear  was  but  factitious.  In  the  corridor  without, 
people  passed  and  repassed,  chatting  as  animatedly 
as  if  this  were  still  the  Calle  Hornachuelos  and  our 
compartment  the  Hotel  Suisse.  Doors  up  and  down 
the  car  grated  on  their  hinges  like  the  gates  of  Mil- 
ton's inferno.  A  dim  light  filtered  through  the  sway- 
ing curtains  as  the  train  groaned  its  way  through 
tunnels,  across  trestles,  over  clicking  switches. 
Stations  made  themselves  felt,  half  guessed  in  the 


174  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

gloom,  by  the  flashing  of  their  lanterns  as  we 
trundled  through  them. 

Occasionally  we  stopped,  and  now  and  then  a 
belated  traveler  came  aboard.  One  such,  after  se- 
curing his  seat,  went  wandering  through  the  train 
and  finally  entered  our  compartment  by  mistake. 
He  was  a  fat  and  jolly  soul,  and  sank  into  what  he 
supposed  was  his  former  seat  beside  a  companion, 
whom  he  embraced  with  fervor,  —  thereby  awak- 
ening the  startled  Frenchman,  who  was  snoring  in 
peace,  and  causing  him  to  sputter  with  astonish- 
ment at  this  unexpected  manifestation  of  esteem. 
The  horrified  Spaniard  jumped  from  the  compart- 
ment as  if  demented,  ejaculating  "  Carr-r-ramba ! " 
The  Frenchmen  joined  us  in  a  laugh  of  truly  Ho- 
meric proportions,  which  was  renewed  a  moment 
later  when  the  same  jolly  face  was  thrust  in  again, 
the  same  blunder  repeated,  and  the  same  hasty  exit 
made  with  a  muttered  tampoco  (freely  "what, 
again?")  — after  which  our  wandering  visitor  was 
seen  no  more. 

It  grew  colder  and  colder  as  the  train  clambered 
into  the  interior  table-land  of  Spain,  and  when  day 
dawned  at  some  unearthly  morning  hour  it  revealed 
a  vast  and  barren  country,  bleak  deserts,  rocky 
heights,  scattered  villages  of  starveling  appearance, 
plains  cultivated  sparsely  here  and  there,  but  in  the 
main  vacant  and  cheerless  pastures.  One  by  one 
the  stiffened  passengers  shook  themselves  from 
comfortless  slumber,  splashed  weary  eyes  with 


CORDOVA  175 

water  in  the  cindery  washrooms  of  the  train,  and 
gazed  with  envy  at  the  equally  weary-looking  oc- 
cupants of  the  solitary  sleeping  car.  And  still  the 
train  dashed  along  through  those  endless  plains, 
down  barren  valleys  between  smooth  and  naked 
hills,  wrinkled  like  folds  of  giant  flesh,  —  and  at 
the  last,  far  away  across  a  great  depression  in  the 
desert,  came  Madrid,  a  great  city  set  in  the  midst 
of  utter  desolation,  her  roofs  and  towers  sharply 
clear  in  the  crisp  air  of  the  morning. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN   OLD   MADRID 

IT  is  commonly  averred  that  Madrid  really  owes 
her  official  primacy  among  Spanish  cities  to  the 
great  toe  of  Charles  V.  The  keen  climate  of  its  lofty 
plateau  suited  well  the  ailments  of  that  doughty 
and  gouty  monarch,  and  led  him  to  pass  much  time 
there,  thus  making  a  capital  by  pure  fiat  in  a  spot 
where  originally  it  would  have  seemed  that  there 
existed  no  excuse,  near  or  remote,  for  building  any 
city  at  all,  —  certainly  not  a  city  intended  for  the 
residence  of  a  royal  court.  Madrid  was  not  without 
her  claims  to  centrality,  to  be  sure,  and  this  element 
naturally  shared  with  the  salubrious  character  of 
her  atmosphere  the  honor  of  making  her  the  capital 
of  Spain.  But  in  the  time  of  Charles  V,  it  was  the 
imperial  gout  that  really  decided  the  matter,  and 
Madrid  came  into  being  as  a  regal  city  in  a  spot 
devoid  of  every  vestige  of  natural  attractiveness. 

With  Philip  II,  who  succeeded  Charles,  the  geo- 
graphical element  probably  weighed  the  more 
heavily.  The  constituent  parts  of  his  kingdom  were 
such  that  no  other  city  would  serve  as  well.  Sara- 
gossa,  Burgos,  Seville,  Toledo,  Cordova,  —  all  well- 
established  and  ancient  cities,  —  were  either  by 


IN  OLD  MADRID  177 

location  or  by  nature  unsuitable.  Some  new  site 
must  be  found ;  and  while  Madrid  had  no  form  nor 
comeliness  that  a  monarch  of  ordinary  mould  should 
desire  her,  she  was  obviously  most  central  with 
reference  to  the  discordant  sections  of  the  Spanish 
dominions.  Furthermore,  Philip  was  far  from  being 
the  man  to  revolt  from  cheerless  or  gloomy  sur- 
roundings; and  what  would  have  repelled  almost 
any  other  king  as  being  quite  unsuited  to  the  re- 
quirements of  a  royal  abode  probably  appealed  to 
his  austere  and  chilly  soul  with  double  force.  The 
monarch  who  could  build  an  Escorial  must  inevit- 
ably approve  Madrid  as  the  site  of  his  government. 

Circumstances  long  ago  ceased  to  make  this  a 
habitation  enforced  either  by  physical  or  govern- 
mental necessity.  Subsequent  rulers  escaped  the 
twinges  that  so  burdened  the  Emperor  Charles,  and 
Spanish  unity  would  doubtless  be  as  well  served 
to-day  if  the  capital  were  elsewhere.  The  kings  of 
Spain  since  the  line  of  fanatic  Philips  have  gener- 
ally been  much  less  addicted  to  the  worship  of 
misery  and  much  more  inclined  to  cheer.  But  Spain 
is  the  land  of  fixed  habits  to  an  extraordinary  degree ; 
and  after  Madrid  had  served  the  country  as  its 
capital  for  two  successive  reigns  it  is  probable  that 
it  would  have  required  a  delicate  surgical  operation 
on  the  intellect  of  the  entire  people  to  implant  the 
idea  that  a  capital  could  ever  by  any  chance  be 
located  anywhere  else. 

No  site  in  all  Spain  could  have  been  less  promis- 


178  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

ing.  A  lofty  and  arid  desert  stretches  away  on  every 
hand  in  the  most  stupidly  dreary  landscape  that 
could  well  be  imagined,  —  gratefully  relieved  to  the 
north  and  west,  however,  by  the  rugged  and  snowy 
chain  of  the  Guadarramas.  Yet  these  same  moun- 
tains, while  diversifying  the  view,  likewise  serve  to 
render  the  climate  of  Madrid  intolerably  bitter  in 
winter  without  sensibly  mitigating  its  intense  heat 
in  summer.  The  climate  of  the  whole  interior  of 
Spain  is  bad  enough,  but  it  is  probably  at  its  worst 
in  the  principal  official  city  of  the  realm,  which 
stands  at  a  level  of  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 
And  yet  Madrid  lives,  and  presumably  always 
will,  despite  occasional  proposals  to  move  the  capi- 
tal to  some  more  agreeable  site.  Her  people  mani- 
fest an  almost  absurd  devotion  to  the  spot.  They 
have  permitted  themselves  for  many  centuries  to 
believe  that  their  capital  is  one  of  the  most  charm- 
ing in  the  world.  They  have  done  their  best  to 
beautify  it  with  imposing  buildings  and  magnificent 
streets  and  squares.  To  the  east  of  the  city  they 
have  laid  out  a  huge  park  of  trees  in  feeble  imitation 
of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  the  life  of  the  trees  being 
as  artificially  maintained  as  the  life  of  Madrid  has 
been  from  the  first.  And  still,  despite  all  the  loving 
care  that  has  been  lavished  on  it,  and  with  all  the 
activity  and  enthusiasm  of  its  half-million  of  people, 
Madrid  cannot  conceal  that  artificiality,  and  re- 
mains, according  to  the  concurrent  judgment  of 
many  hasty  visitors,  one  of  the  stupidest  of  all  the 


IN  OLD  MADRID  179 

famous  cities  of  the  earth.  She  has  too  much  the  air 
of  having  been  made  to  order.  She  lacks  the  saving 
grace  of  romantic  legend  and  stirring  history.  As 
she  exists  to-day  she  cannot  even  claim  to  be  par- 
ticularly old.  But  she  has  remained  the  capital  of 
Spain  for  so  long  that  the  inconvenience  of  her  loca- 
tion and  climate  has  been  swallowed  up  in  the 
greater  inconvenience  of  moving  away.  And  I  must 
confess  that  the  city  has  a  certain  degree  of  charm 
which  has  grown  on  me  as  I  have  come  to  know  it 
better. 

While  the  most  famous  of  the  Spanish  monarchs 
were  thus  directly  responsible  for  the  adoption  of 
the  site  as  their  capital,  it  must  not  be  assumed  that 
there  was  no  previous  occupancy  of  the  spot.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  settlement  and  the  name  of  the 
city  go  back  to  the  Moors,  who  appear  to  have 
established  an  outpost  here  as  early  as  the  tenth 
century,  calling  its  name  Madjrit.  It  had  no  celeb- 
rity, however,  and  little  strength.  It  lay  exposed  in 
a  bare  table-land  on  the  edge  of  a  deep  ravine 
through  which  ran  the  Manzanares,  —  a  stream 
which  is  meagre  at  best.  Indeed,  it  is  recorded  that 
when  Philip  built  a  rather  pretentious  bridge  over 
it,  a  brilliant  Frenchwoman  in  his  court  inquired 
why  he  did  not  sell  his  bridge  or  buy  a  river ! 

So  much  for  the  fact  that  Madrid  blossomed  in 
the  desert  by  monarchical  decree.  Her  tenure,  at 
first  precarious,  seems  so  no  longer.  Her  streets  are 
broad  and  teem  with  people.  Her  distances  are 


i8o  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

magnificent.  Her  cafes  are  numerous  and  gay.  Her 
major  thoroughfares  are  crowded  with  fine  carriages 
and  splendid  automobiles,  filled  with  fashionably 
dressed  and  handsome  women.  Her  shady  boule- 
vards afford  a  delightful  promenade.  Madrid  is  no 
mean  flower  to  have  grown  out  of  such  sterile  soil, 
but  is  joyous,  and  brilliant,  and  blessed  with  an 
abounding  sense  of  her  own  charms  which  the  for- 
eigner, casually  visiting  within  her  gates,  finds  it  a 
trifle  difficult  to  understand.  Even  a  local  proverb 
sums  up  the  keenness  of  the  climate  by  saying  that 
it  "is  as  sharp  as  a  knife ;  it  will  spare  a  candle,  but 
blow  out  your  life."  And  with  all  the  life  and  gayety 
and  movement  in  the  city  streets,  it  is  probably  the 
fact  that  if  it  were  not  for  her  matchless  museum 
of  the  Prado  the  average  visitor  would  dismiss  the 
city  with  no  more  than  a  day's  notice. 

It  is  a  decidedly  modern  place.  The  great  streets 
radiating  from  the  spacious  Puerta  del  Sol  are  lined 
with  magnificent  shops  of  every  kind,  and  one  will 
not  inspect  them  very  long  before  discovering  a 
remarkable  feature  of  business  life  in  Madrid;  to 
wit,  the  prevalence  of  the  sobrinos.  A  sobrino  is, 
being  interpreted,  a  nephew ;  and  in  no  other  land 
are  collateral  relations  so  proud  of  their  connections. 
It  is  no  uncommon  thing  to  read  in  imposing  gilt 
letters  over  a  shop  such  an  inscription  as  "Widow 
of  Juan  Cortez  and  Nephews  of  Manuel  Cervera," 
or  oftener  still,  merely  the  "Nephews,"  —  thus 
prolonging  the  commercial  celebrity  of  some  old 


IN  OLD  MADRID  181 

established  house  unto  the  third  and  fourth  gener- 
ation, —  occasionally  spread  out  pretty  thin,  no 
doubt. 

The  shops  are  seldom  open  before  nine  in  the 
morning,  for  the  Madrilefio  is  essentially  a  creature 
of  nocturnal  habits  and  is  not  often  to  be  seen 
abroad  at  any  very  early  hour.  This  delay  in  open- 
ing the  day,  however,  is  amply  atoned  for  by  post- 
poning its  close  far  into  the  night.  The  grand 
central  square  of  the  Puerta  del  Sol  is  as  lively  and 
congested  at  mid-evening  as  it  is  at  midday,  and  of 
all  the  sights  in  the  modern  city  is  easily  the  most 
animated  and  pleasing.  Ten  great  streets  radiate 
from  it,  and  out  of  each  comes  a  constant  torrent  of 
people  hurrying,  as  much  as  anybody  in  Spain 
ever  does  hurry,  into  the  maelstrom  of  the  square 
and  into  the  streets  on  the  other  side.  By  day  it  is 
a  vast  area  of  sunshine,  well  deserving  its  name. 
By  night  it  is  gay  with  myriad  lights.  It  is,  in  con- 
sequence, noisy  at  all  times,  and  the  hotels  which 
cluster  around  this  focus  of  activity  are  noisy  too. 
One  who  cherishes  repose  will  do  well  to  avoid  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  the  Puerta  del  Sol  and  seek 
such  seclusion  as  adjacent  highways  may  grant,  — 
but  not  too  far  away.  For  the  puerta  is  the  practi- 
cal focus  of  Madrid,  centre  and  soul  of  the  tramway 
system,  and  therefore  the  point  from  which  every 
other  point  may  most  easily  be  reached.  Here  also 
most  of  the  public  carriages  congregate,  bearing 
aloft  metal  flags  inscribed  se  alguila,  —  "to  let.*' 


1 82  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

However,  there  are  not  very  many  attractions  in 
Madrid  that  the  stranger  will  seriously  care  to  see, 
and  these  few  are  at  no  great  distance  from  the 
Puerta  del  Sol.  The  chief  of  all  must  always  be  the 
grand  collection  of  paintings  housed  at  the  Museo 
del  Prado,  which  it  will  be  well  to  consider  here 
at  some  length.  And  after  that  collection,  little 
remains  to  see  save  the  royal  palace  and  the 
magnificent  armory  adjacent  to  it,  in  which  latter 
narrow  room  one  may  absorb  more  vivid  history 
in  half  an  hour  than  would  be  derived  from  many 
books  in  many  weeks.  There  are  also  one  or  two 
minor  collections  of  paintings  which,  by  compari- 
son with  the  Prado,  are  unimportant ;  but  beyond 
that  Madrid  has  almost  nothing  to  offer  but  her 
intensely  modern  life  in  a  modern  setting.  For 
those  who  prefer  that  sort  of  thing,  Madrid  pos- 
sesses abundant  charm.  But  it  requires,  of  course, 
opportunities  for  protracted  residence  to  attain 
anything  like  familiarity  with  this  side  of  the  city, 
and  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  Spanish 
life  than  can  possibly  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  casual 
traveler.  I  can  imagine  Madrid  being  a  very  de- 
lightful place  to  one  properly  equipped.  To  the 
artist,  especially,  it  must  be  one  of  the  most  desir- 
able cities.  But  to  the  ordinary  voyager  through 
Spain  it  is  perhaps  the  least  attractive  and  is  saved 
from  disgracefully  cavalier  treatment  by  the  fame 
of  Velasquez  alone. 

The  Prado  museum,  which  is,  as  its  name  implies, 


IN  OLD  MADRID  183 

located  on  the  boulevard  of  the  Prado,  enjoys  an 
admirably  attractive  situation.  The  highway  that 
stretches  up  and  down  before  it,  well  shaded  by 
vigorous  trees  and  adorned  here  and  there  with 
attractive  fountains,  is  one  of  the  handsomest 
thoroughfares  in  Madrid,  and  one  of  the  gayest. 
As  for  the  museum  itself,  it  will  hardly  be  denied 
that  it  is  one  of  the  finest  collections  in  Europe, 
from  any  point  of  view ;  while  as  a  gathering  of  the 
works  of  the  most  famous  painters  of  the  golden 
age  of  art,  it  is  perhaps  the  very  finest  in  the  world. 
Its  most  undisputed  preeminence  is,  of  course,  in  its 
possession  of  Velasquez ;  for  no  other  gallery  in  the 
world  can  begin  to  compare  with  it  as  a  repository 
of  the  work  of  that  consummate  master.  If  the 
Prado  museum  had  no  other  paintings  to  show  than 
those  of  Philip  IV's  great  court  painter,  it  could 
still  claim  a  foremost  place  among  the  world's 
notable  collections  of  pictures;  and  as  an  actual 
fact  it  can  show  a  great  deal  more.  The  late  John 
Hay,  writing  something  like  thirty  years  ago,  did 
not  hesitate  to  rate  it  above  the  Pitti,  the  Louvre, 
and  the  National  Gallery  as  a  collection  of  the  great 
masters  of  the  Renaissance,  although  other  galleries 
may  easily  surpass  it  in  exemplifying  the  many 
lower  strata  which  mark  the  gradual  progress  of  art. 
When  one  adds  to  the  vast  body  of  foreign  work 
the  exquisite  achievements  of  the  native  Velasquez, 
a  due  proportion  of  Murillo,  a  multitude  of  the 
works  of  El  Greco,  a  grand  collection  of  the  paint- 


184  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

ings  of  the  industrious  Ribera  (Lo  Spagnoletto) ,  and 
a  highly  interesting,  though  occasionally  somewhat 
grotesque,  accumulation  of  Goyas,  it  really  seems 
not  to  be  a  very  dangerous  exaggeration  to  place 
the  whole  at  the  head  of  the  notable  art  collections 
of  the  world. 

The  building  in  which  the  treasures  of  the  Prado 
are  housed  was  begun  by  Charles  III,  who  designed 
it  for  a  museum  of  natural  history ;  and  as  a  natural 
result  it  leaves  very  much  to  be  desired  as  a  place 
for  hanging  oil  paintings  to-day.  The  chief  credit 
for  converting  it  to  the  uses  of  a  great  museum  of 
art  belongs,  by  a  curious  circumstance,  to  Ferdi- 
nand VII,  — whose  other  claims  to  celebrity  are  la- 
mentably few.  That  monarch,  being  seized  one  day 
with  a  desire  to  renovate  and  decorate  his  palaces, 
had  all  the  pictures  they  contained  taken  down  and 
carted  to  the  Prado  for  storage.  And  the  instant 
popularity  of  this  temporary  housing  led  the  king 
to  make  it  permanent;  so  that  the  mere  accident 
of  a  monarch's  passing  whim  gave  to  Madrid  her 
crowning  glory. 

I  have  no  intention  of  entering  upon  anything 
like  a  catalogue  or  thorough  description  of  the 
museum  of  the  Prado.  Its  scope  is  so  great  and  its 
canvases  are  so  manifold  that  to  attempt  any  such 
thing  within  the  compass  of  this  book  would  be 
physically  impossible,  as  well  as  a  bit  of  needless 
hardihood.  Nevertheless  one  obviously  cannot  pass 
it  by  without  a  word,  and  must  select  with  some 


IN  OLD  MADRID  185 

little  care  what  to  speak  of  in  passing.  Following 
the  course  of  least  resistance,  and  recurring  only 
to  what  left  its  profoundest  impression,  I  find  my 
mind  reverting  to  the  great  room  set  apart  for  the 
works  of  Velasquez  and  ignoring  the  superb  collec- 
tion of  Italian  masters,  although  by  no  means  for- 
getful of  the  incomparable  portrait  gallery,  the 
wealth  of  Riberas,  the  gaunt  Grecos,  and  the  curi- 
ous Goyas.  For  within  this  temple  of  art,  Don 
Diego  Velasquez  is  unquestionably  high  priest.  Of 
all  hij  known  works,  practically  a  half  are  housed 
here,  in  a  collection  by  themselves.  There  are  about 
sixty  of  them,  and  no  other  gallery  possesses  a 
tithe  of  that  number,  or  can  claim  to  possess  any- 
thing like  the  same  interest.  The  Velasquez  room 
leads  off  the  great  central  hall  about  midway  of  the 
building,  and  is  practically  given  up  in  its  entirety 
to  the  works  of  the  Spanish  master. 

But  these  are  not  all.  In  the  long  and  narrow 
hall  outside  hang  several  Velasquez  paintings  (only 
partly  authenticated,  however),  including  at  least 
one  of  the  familiar  portraits  of  Philip  IV,  as  well  as 
a  most  charming  one  of  the  young  prince  Bal- 
tasar  Carlos  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  This  latter  is  one 
of  those  that  are  only  " attributed  to"  the  great 
Sevillian,  but  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  regard  it  as 
anything  but  a  Velasquez,  in  full  and  regular  stand- 
ing. Surely  it  is  thoroughly  admirable,  and  if  the 
master  did  not  paint  it  himself  he  must  have  trans- 
mitted his  personal  skill  for  this  one  effort  to  some 


i86  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

remarkably  apt  pupil.  Nowhere,  in  my  own  judg- 
ment, does  Valasquez  succeed  better  than  in  his 
several  paintings  of  this  ill-starred  son  of  Philip  IV. 
He  seems  to  have  found  an  inspiration  in  this  radi- 
ant boy  that  was  wholly  lacking  in  the  long,  lean, 
supercilious  face  of  his  much-painted  father.  Don 
Diego  painted  the  lad  again  and  again  as  he  grew 
toward  the  manhood  he  was  destined  never  to 
reach,  —  now  as  a  child  with  a  gun,  now  mounted 
on  an  incredibly  fat  and  roly-poly  pony,  now  as  a 
sweet  and  winning  youth  in  sober  black,  —  but 
always  with  a  princely  grace  and  air  of  distinction. 
He  painted  Philip,  the  father,  more  often  still,  and 
likewise  in  many  attitudes,  —  even  at  prayer,  with 
an  abstracted  face  and  lack-lustre  eye  that  make 
you  feel  that  the  painter  was  more  in  his  thoughts 
than  his  devotions.  One  grows  to  love  the  little 
prince,  Baltasar  Carlos,  and  to  bemoan  his  untimely 
death.  One  grows  to  dislike  Philip  IV,  from  seeing 
him  too  much.  And  yet  one  does  feel,  at  the  end, 
that  one  knows  him  rather  well !  Velasquez  proved 
himself  a  worthy  vassal,  and  gave  his  sovereign  an 
immortality  that  the  king's  own  deeds  would  never 
have  conferred ;  and  he  saved  poor  little  Don  Bal- 
tasar from  the  oblivion  that  his  early  death  had 
otherwise  wrapped  about  him. 

Fortunately  we  are  not  left  without  an  accurate 
idea  of  the  features  of  Velasquez  himself,  for 
besides  his  other  portraits  he  managed  to  work  his 
own  face  into  the  picture  generally  esteemed  to  be 


MENIPPUS 


IN  OLD  MADRID  187 

his  masterpiece,  —  the  painting  known  as  "Las 
Meninas  "  (the  handmaidens) ,  which  enjoys  the  dis- 
tinction of  having  a  room  to  itself,  perfectly  lighted 
and  always  besieged  by  a  throng  of  admirers.  To 
add  to  the  almost  perfect  illusion  of  the  picture, 
the  custodians  have  arranged  mirrors  for  viewing 
it  indirectly,  and  when  thus  seen  it  is  difficult  to 
believe  that  this  can  possibly  be  no  more  than 
paint  and  canvas.  Velasquez  himself  is  seen  look- 
ing out  of  the  picture,  dark  and  debonair,  brush  in 
hand,  and  obviously  at  work  on  the  canvas  that 
rises  just  before  him.  Most  probably  he  is  painting 
the  portraits  of  the  king  and  queen,  and  not  that  of 
the  little  princess  in  the  foreground,  who,  in  all  the 
oddity  of  her  prodigious  skirts,  is  enlivening  a  res- 
pite in  the  sitting,  surrounded  by  her  maids.1  One 
of  these  offers  her  a  bit  of  refreshment,  while  the 
others  stand  in  rather  stolid  indifference  to  her  left 
hand,  and  a  mischievous  dwarf  prods  a  sleepy  old 
dog  with  his  foot.  It  is  a  wonderfully  lifelike  dog, 
and  one  may  fairly  hear  his  comfortable  grunts  as 
the  lad  rolls  him  under  his  slippered  toe.  In  the 
dimness  of  the  background,  in  a  mirror,  one  may 
catch  the  reflected  image  of  Philip  and  his  queen. 
Don  Diego  thus  considerately  helped  himself  to  a 

1  Critics  differ  hopelessly  in  describing  the  Meninas,  some 
stoutly  maintaining  that  Velasquez  represents  himself  as  painting 
the  little  princess.  This  interpretation  has  never  seemed  to  me  as 
reasonable  as  that  which  the  weight  of  authority  seems  to  prefer,  — 
namely,  that  he  was  painting  Philip  and  his  queen,  who  are  shown 
only  in  the  glass  darkly. 


188  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

share  of  that  immortality  of  feature  which  his 
brush  bestowed  so  impartially  on  Philip,  Isabel  of 
Bourbon,  Marianne  of  Austria,  Dona  Maria  Teresa, 
Don  Baltasar,  and  all  the  rest. 

It  is  entirely  probable  that  Velasquez  suffers  from 
this  excess  of  Philip  IV.  It  is  small  wonder  that  he 
grew  marvelously  expert  in  portraying  him.  But  it 
was  with  Velasquez  as  it  was  with  Murillo,  —  he 
was  forced  to  work  too  much  along  one  line.  Even 
the  elusive  reflection  in  the  dusky  mirror  in  the 
background  of  Las  Meninas  could  by  no  possibility 
be  mistaken  for  any  one  but  Philip,  the  most  be- 
portraited  king  that  ever  sat  on  any  throne.  Never- 
theless, Velasquez  did  now  and  then  escape  alto- 
gether from  his  royal  master,  and  gave  a  taste  of  his 
quality  in  other  directions.  Just  outside  the  door 
that  leads  to  the  shrine  of  the  handmaidens  there 
is  a  large  and  admirable  picture  of  tapestry  weavers, 
—  perhaps  second  only  to  the  more  famous  painting 
within  as  a  masterpiece  of  Velasquez's  art.  On  an 
adjacent  wall  hangs  the  historical  painting  repre- 
senting the  surrender  of  Breda,  a  wonderful  pre- 
sentation of  the  magnanimous  hour  of  victory,  part 
portrait  and  part  imagination.  Different  from  any 
of  the  other  works  in  tone  and  temperament  is  the 
painting  of  the  roguish  bacchanals,  —  half-drunken 
peasants  who  are  playing  at  pagan  divinity  and  are 
initiating  a  neophyte.  It  is  not  entirely  pleasant,  to 
be  sure,  but  there  are  few  more  realistic  faces  on 
any  canvas  than  that  which  leers  out  at  you  from 


IN  OLD  MADRID  189 

over  its  brimming  cup.  A  still  different  class  of 
pictures  is  to  be  found  in  the  tall  panels  called  re- 
spectively ".^Esop"  and  "Menippus," —  evidently 
character  studies,  and  to  my  mind  very  nearly  the 
most  attractive  of  all  this  prolific  painter's  in- 
imitable work.  Then  there  are  various  other  por- 
traits scattered  about,  —  repulsive  dwarfs,  jesters, 
lawyers,  sculptors,  story-tellers.  It  is  a  wonderful 
room  for  variety,  after  all,  despite  the  frequent  re- 
currence of  Philip's  morbid  face  with  its  watery 
blue  eyes  and  pale  mustachios.  The  prevailing  tone 
appears  to  be  a  cool  gray-green,  its  varying  degrees 
of  sombreness  relieved  now  and  then  by  such 
touches  of  color  as  the  rosy  scarf  of  the  little  Bal- 
tasar  on  his  corpulent  and  prancing  steed.  Not 
many  pictures  before  Velasquez's  time  possess  this 
curiously  sombre  charm,  but  there  is  at  least  one  in 
the  Prado  which  may  well  lay  claim  to  it,  and 
that  is  Titian's  magnificent  equestrian  portrait  of 
Charles  V,  cantering  so  gravely  and  alone  to  battle 
at  Miihlberg. 

A  Crucifixion  hung  in  the  same  room  with  the 
others  reveals  the  fact  that  even  the  lively  and 
courtly  Velasquez  permitted  himself  to  paint  a  re- 
ligious picture  now  and  then,  but  he  would  certainly 
never  have  achieved  great  fame  by  these  alone.  It 
is  by  his  secular  work,  his  portraits,  his  whimsical 
interpretation  of  character,  his  consummate  mas- 
tery of  light,  and  above  all  of  shade,  that  he  has 
climbed  to  his  present  eminence,  —  rather  pain- 


TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

fully  and  rather  slowly,  to  be  sure,  for  it  was  nearly 
his  tercentenary  before  the  world  at  large  hailed 
him  as  acknowledged  prince  among  the  immortals. 

Crowding  closely  on  the  heels  of  Velasquez  as  af- 
fording to  the  halls  of  the  Prado  unusual  distinction 
come  Titian  and  Raphael.  The  great  portrait  of 
Charles  already  referred  to  is  but  one  of  forty  can- 
vases from  the  brush  of  the  great  Venetian,  which 
include  other  portraits  of  that  puissant  monarch 
and  his  gloomy  son,  worthy  to  rank  with  the  inter- 
minable collection  of  the  later  Philip  as  relics  of  a 
famous  age.  On  the  whole,  Titian  fares  as  well  in 
the  Prado  as  he  does  in  any  European  gallery,  sim- 
ply because  he  was  so  great  a  favorite  of  the  em- 
peror ;  and  Vasari  relates  that  after  Charles  became 
acquainted  with  Titian  and  his  work  he  would  per- 
mit no  other  painter  to  portray  him.1 

Raphael's  contributions  to  the  Prado  collection 
are  somewhat  less  numerous,  but  happily  they  in- 
clude several  of  his  most  famous  works.  There  are 
two  admirable  Holy  Families,  one  of  which  Philip 
IV  bought  for  £2000  of  Charles  I  of  England,  and 
regarded  as  "the  pearl"  of  his  Raphaels,  although 
not  all  have  since  concurred  in  this  judgment.  The 

1  Titian  seems  to  have  pleased  Charles  most  of  all  by  his  repre- 
sentation of  the  final  apotheosis  of  the  emperor  and  his  son, 
Philip  II,  they  being  received  on  high  with  evident  approval  by  a 
benevolent  and  kindly  Deity.  This  picture,  which  now  hangs  in  the 
Italian  section  of  the  Prado,  was  taken  to  the  monastery  of  Yuste, 
whither  Charles  retired  after  his  abdication,  and  was  the  last  object 
that  his  dying  eyes  looked  upon,  —  to  his  great  content. 


IN  OLD  MADRID  191 

Madonna  of  the  Fish,  which  also  hangs  in  the  Ital- 
ian section,  ranks  high  among  the  noble  army  of 
Madonnas  with  which  Raphael  peopled  the  gal- 
leries of  the  continent,  and  appears  to  be  indisput- 
ably a  work  entirely  by  the  master's  own  hand. 

Space  would  fail  me  to  attempt  here  any  more 
detailed  description  of  this  bewildering  array  of 
Italian  masters,  or  any  extended  catalogue  of  the 
paintings  of  the  industrious  and  honest  Ribera, — 
so  honest  that  soiled  nails  and  other  blemishes  were 
not  beneath  his  notice  in  the  portrayal  of  unkempt 
hermits  and  holy  men!  Yet  he  unquestionably 
ranks  among  the  best  of  Spain's  painters,  and  some 
have  been  so  discerning  as  to  declare  him  to  be  the 
superior  of  Murillo.  Neither  shall  I  make  any  effort 
to  describe  tall,  thin  Grecos  or  the  quaint  array  of 
Goyas,  although  Madrid  holds  Goya  in  high  es- 
teem and  adorns  the  principal  entrance  of  her  great 
art  gallery  with  his  rotund  and  quizzical  statue.  It 
should  be  added,  however,  that  much  of  the  un- 
couthness  displayed  in  his  paintings  is  to  be  ac- 
counted for  by  the  fact  that  many  of  these  were 
mere  studies  for  the  guidance  of  tapestry  weavers. 
But  I  am  free  to  confess  that  I  personally  have  never 
been  able  to  bring  myself  to  like  him,  and  even 
Greco  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  acquired  taste  to  which 
many  pretend,  but  which  few  genuinely  feel  save  as 
a  duty. 

I  cannot  forbear  to  say  just  a  word  regarding  the 
great  portrait  gallery  that  opens  from  the  rotunda 


192  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

at  the  entrance,  because  this  hall  must  divide  with 
the  royal  armory  at  the  other  side  of  the  town  the 
high  honor  of  being  Madrid's  greatest  historical 
inspiration.  Here  is  Titian's  other  great  portrait  of 
Charles  V,  —  standing,  this  time,  rather  than  on 
horseback,  and  accompanied  by  a  huge  dog.  Close 
beside  him  stands  the  figure  of  his  gloomy  son, 
Philip  II,  also  by  Titian,  revealing  the  joyless  and 
fanatical  priggishness  of  his  nature  in  his  sombre 
face.  Isabella  of  Portugal,  Charles's  wife, — where 
will  one  find  a  lovelier  queen  than  she?  Surely 
not  in  the  features  of  Mary  of  England,  whose 
beady  eyes  and  scowling  brows  stare  out  at  one 
from  across  the  room!  And  yet  it  was  this  very 
painting  that  led  a  king  of  Spain  to  desire  her  to 
wife! 

The  tendency  to  prolixity  in  such  a  presence  is  a 
dangerous  one,  —  more  especially  so  when  the  lay- 
man seeks  to  set  down  his  vagrant  impressions  of 
art  months  after  the  pictures  have  faded  into  elu- 
sive memories.  And  while  it  is  with  a  sincere  regret, 
I  must  resolutely  deny  myself  the  luxury  of  fur- 
ther consideration  of  the  Prado,  well  knowing  that 
therein  I  must  leave  much  of  that  noble  collection 
of  Italian  and  Flemish  masterpieces  quite  unmen- 
tioned. 

Let  us  hasten,  then,  with  the  memory  of  these 
historical  personages  clearly  in  our  minds,  to  the 
armory  before  referred  to  as  lying  close  to  the  great 
royal  palaces.  It  is  situated  at  the  end  of  one  of 


IN  OLD  MADRID  193 

those  tremendous  stone  antennae  that  embrace  the 
level  Plaza  de  Armas,  or  parade  ground,  before  the 
royal  residence ;  and  to  reach  it  one  must  cross  that 
broad  square,  glaringly  yellow  in  the  noontide  sun, 
where  the  green-gloved  soldiery  maintain  a  constant 
guard.  The  armory,  a  rather  small  room  by  com- 
parison, is  one  of  the  most  impressive  museums  of 
warlike  accoutrements  in  the  world.  Here  are 
stored  the  arms  of  the  kings  of  Spain  from  the  ear- 
liest times  to  the  present  day,  as  well  as  the  trophies 
of  many  a  hard-fought  field.  Here  is  a  multitude 
of  guns,  and  here  are  swords,  daggers,  pistols, 
lances,  suits  on  suits  of  armor,  —  the  latter  not  only 
standing  erect  but  filled  in  many  cases  with  the 
effigies  of  their  ancient  and  royal  owners.  Charles 
V,  mounted  on  his  powerful  horse,  canters  as 
gravely  off  to  Miihlberg  as  ever  he  did  in  Titian's 
picture,  —  and  this  is  the  very  armor  that  he  wore. 
This  is  the  self-same  horse-clothing  that  we  see  on 
Titian's  canvas,  from  the  trailing  cape  to  the  "  Plus 
Ultra"  of  the  bridle  rein.  Here  is  the  slender  and 
ladylike  sword  that  Isabella  of  Castile  was  wont  to 
carry.  Here  is  the  richly  decorated  tent  used  by  the 
ill-starred  Francis  I  at  Pavia.  Truly  it  is  a  bewil- 
dering arsenal,  and  every  piece  that  one  sees  is  in- 
stinct with  the  momentous  history  of  a  glorious 
past.  The  inlaid  gun-stocks,  the  Damascened 
blades,  the  highly  wrought  greaves  and  cuirasses, 
— all  are  of  marvelous  beauty. 

With  all  this  martial  display,  reflecting  the  glory 


194  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

that  was  Spain's,  bugles  from  far  outside  seem  to 
blend  perfectly.  It  is  the  signal  for  the  daily  chang- 
ing of  the  palace  guard, —  a  stately  ceremony  that 
one  may  profitably  step  outside  to  see.  One  corps 
of  soldiers,  representing  detachments  of  infantry, 
artillery,  and  cavalry,  which  has  been  guarding  the 
royal  person  for  the  past  twenty-four  hours,  is 
about  to  be  relieved  of  its  arduous  duties  by  another 
similar  detachment.  It  will  take  something  like  an 
hour  —  say  from  eleven  o'clock  to  noon  —  to  per- 
form this  ceremony,  so  it  is  well  to  step  into  the 
shade  of  the  building  for  comfort.  But  as  you  are 
prudent,  be  quiet  and  sedate;  else  the  officious 
troopers  who  swarm  all  about  will  glare  and  ad- 
monish !  At  last  comes  the  relieving  host,  heralded 
by  a  splendid  band  playing  a  soft  and  haunting  mel- 
ody, —  the  royal  march  of  Spain.  It  is  no  quick- 
step, this  march,  nor  yet  is  it  a  dirge.  It  is  simply  a 
stately  and  dignified  measure,  as  difficult  to  "  march 
by"  as  the  bridal  music  of  Lohengrin,  to  the  notes  of 
which  so  many  awkward  steps  have  been  taken; 
but  the  Spanish  soldiers  do  it  admirably,  throwing 
out  their  advancing  feet  and  poising  them  in  mid-air 
with  all  the  grace  and  precision  of  a  corps  de  ballet. 
Slowly  and  with  impressive  tread  the  invading 
host  circles  about  the  Plaza  de  Armas,  and  as 
slowly  the  retiring  troop  collects  its  scattered  squads 
ready  to  march  out.  Each  body  is  at  last  drawn  up 
before  the  palace.  The  captains  ride  majestically  up 
toward  the  royal  balcony,  empty  as  it  is,  and  salute. 


IN  OLD  MADRID  195 

The  band  plays  a  brief  concert  programme,  — 
said  to  be  for  the  pleasure  of  the  queen.  Then  the 
captains  salute  each  other,  the  bands  begin  once 
more  the  haunting  softness  of  that  stately  march, 
and  the  old  guard  —  that  marches  away  but  never 
surrenders  —  passes  slowly  out  of  the  inclosure  to 
those  deep,  dainty,  dignified,  yet  martial  strains, 
every  man  keeping  time  with  that  astonishingly 
unmilitary  goose-step.  And  at  last  they  are  gone. 
The  new  guard  settles  itself  in  the  shade  of  pillars 
and  sentry  boxes,  pulls  its  bright  green  cotton 
gloves  up  over  its  wrists,  and  sets  itself  to  watching 
over  the  king  and  his  interesting  family,  as  every 
well-regulated  domestic  guard  should  do. 

King  Alfonso  XIII,  by  the  way,  appears  to  be  a 
very  popular  young  sovereign,  with  an  equally  pop- 
ular young  English  wife,  a  very  lusty  and  popular 
crown  prince,  and  a  second  son,  —  born  on  the  very 
day  of  this  writing,  —  who,  if  he  lives,  will  doubt- 
less be  popular  too.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  these 
evidences  of  popularity  are  sincere,  and  not  super- 
ficial merely.  As  for  the  young  king,  his  appearance 
is  that  of  a  good-natured,  boyish,  but  still  dignified 
monarch,  fond  of  a  jest,  courageous,  chivalrous, 
and  fond  of  automobiling.  The  Prince  of  Asturias, 
who  at  this  writing  is  about  a  year  old,  is  already 
a  full-fledged  colonel  in  the  army,  —  in  a  regiment 
of  infantry,  no  doubt!  The  younger  son,  Prince 
Jaime,  is  already,  I  believe,  a  high  admiral  of  Spain. 

It  remains  for  us  to  turn  to  one  other  feature  of 


196  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

Spanish  life  not  as  attractive  as  the  Prado  nor  as 
instructive  as  the  armory,  but  fully  as  often  de- 
scribed as  either.  Let  us  assume  that  it  is  a  Sunday 
in  the  vicinity  of  Easter,  —  Palm  Sunday,  if  you 
please,  —  and  that  the  hour  is  three  in  the  after- 
noon. The  Puerta  del  Sol  is  alive  with  people  as 
usual ;  but  this  time,  if  they  come  from  every  quar- 
ter, they  all  proceed  thence  in  one  direction,  down 
the  great  and  broad  highway  of  the  Alcala.  Some 
are  riding  in  street  cars  marked  in  great  letters 
"TOROS."  Others  crowd  into  railway  omnibuses, 
diverted  for  the  afternoon  to  the  purpose  of  taking 
the  populace  to  the  bull-ring.  Thousands  go  on  foot. 
It  is  a  scene  such  as  the  subordinate  American  city 
can  show  on  but  one  day  in  the  year,  —  circus  day ; 
but  in  Madrid  it  is  the  regular  Sunday  afternoon 
spectacle  from  Eastertide  until  the  feast  of  All 
Souls.  Such  was  the  sight  that  greeted  our  own 
eyes  one  Sunday  as  we  descended  the  long  flights 
that  led  down  from  our  pension  in  the  Calle  Mayor 
and  joined  the  moving  throng. 

I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  see  at  least  one  bull- 
fight while  in  Spain,  although  with  great  reluctance, 
—  chiefly  because  to  omit  it  would  be  to  ignore  one 
experience  that  might  be  said  to  be  thoroughly 
Spanish.  At  the  last  moment  one  of  the  senoras 
decided  to  go  too,  though  with  many  womanly  mis- 
givings, —  and  we  went. 

That  we  did  not  enjoy  it  may  as  well  be  predi- 
cated from  the  first.  People  not  to  the  manner  born, 


IN  OLD  MADRID  197 

but  who  live  in  Spain,  tell  me  that  after  a  few  expe- 
riences one  may  overcome  the  initial  aversion  and 
even  grow  to  like  it ;  but  I  cannot  conceive  of  it.  A 
more  abominable  exhibition  of  brutality,  misnamed 
"  sport,"  it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  devise. 
Our  football  games,  with  all  their  drawbacks  and 
dangers,  are  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath 
with  bullfighting.  It  is  true  that  fatalities  in  the 
bull-ring  are  now  rather  rare,  and  it  may  well  be 
that  football  levies  the  greater  annual  tribute  of  life 
and  even  of  limb.  But  the  indictment  of  bullfighting 
is  that  it  is  not  worth  the  name  of  "sport"  at  all, 
as  we  understand  that  term.  The  Spanish  torero  is 
no  sportsman,  and  his  game  is  not  sportsmanlike, 
either  in  conception  or  in  execution.  Briefly  stated, 
it  consists  in  killing  a  foolish  brute  in  the  presence 
of  a  breathless  multitude,  after  goading  the  beast 
to  as  high  a  pitch  of  insensate  fury  as  possible  by 
means  as  diabolical  as  man's  ingenuity  can  devise. 
For  be  it  understood  the  bull  is  but  a  foolish  beast, 
after  all,  despite  his  formidable  appearance  and  his 
long  sharp  horns.  He  is  thick  of  wit,  slow  of  motion, 
always  ready  to  vent  his  absurd  rage  on  a  red  scarf 
without  noticing  the  man  behind  it,  and  so  clumsy 
that  a  trained  and  nimble  toreador  can  elude  his  on- 
slaughts with  ease.  Still  it  would  not  be  so  bad, 
even  as  a-  sport,  if  it  were  not  for  the  utterly  inde- 
fensible employment  of  blindfolded  horses,  whose 
presence  in  the  ring  conduces  not  one  whit  to  the 
killing  of  the  bull,  but  simply  affords  the  brute  a 


198  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

live  object  on  which  to  vent  his  propensity  for  gor- 
ing something.  To  allow  the  bull  to  waste  all  his 
strength  in  tearing  a  red  cape  to  tatters  would  be 
poor  sport  for  a  race  delighting  in  real  blood.  To 
allow  the  men  themselves  to  be  killed  would  not  at  all 
suit  the  honorable  profession  of  toreros.  Hence  the 
presence  of  horses, — generally  worn-out  old  hacks 
that  have  served  their  time  in  the  streets  of  Madrid 
or  elsewhere,  —  to  furnish  the  gore  and  give  a  sem- 
blance of  real  carnage  to  the  play. 

It  was  a  bleak  Sunday  in  Madrid  that  we  chose 
for  our  visit  to  the  Plaza  de  Toros.  The  sun  shone 
with  but  an  ineffectual  fire,  and  a  bitter  wind 
swooped  down  from  the  Guadarramas  in  a  way  that 
made  us  glad  of  our  wraps.  We  were  early  on  the 
road,  fearing  the  crowd,  but  it  was  an  unnecessary 
precaution.  The  bulk  of  the  population  proceeded 
in  other  conveyances  than  the  special  trolley  cars, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  for  this  occasion  only  the  fare 
had  been  raised  to  half  a  peseta.  Thus  we  rode  out 
to  the  bull-ring,  —  a  circular  building  affecting  the 
Moorish  style  to  some  degree,  and  far  from  ungrace- 
ful in  design.  A  great  crowd  streamed  toward  it 
from  all  directions  across  the  vacant  lands  that 
surrounded  it,  but  the  system  of  tickets  and  en- 
trances was  admirably  worked  out  and  there  was  no 
confusion.  Even  unskilled  as  we  were,  we  found  the 
right  entrance  for  our  red  tickets,  and  ascended  the 
stairs  to  the  corridor  which  adjoined  our  lofty  sec- 
tion of  the  amphitheatre. 


IN  OLD  MADRID  199 

Seats  for  a  corida  de  toros  may  always  be  bought 
at  an  established  office  in  the  city,  and  we  had  pro- 
cured ours  there  in  the  forenoon,  taking  care  to 
learn  which  were  most  advisable  for  ladies  who 
might  conceivably  wish  not  to  remain  long.  These 
we  found  to  be  in  the  balcony  immediately  above 
the  unroofed  circle  that  adjoins  the  arena,  which 
latter  would  exactly  correspond  to  our  "  bleachers." 
The  technical  name  for  the  rank  in  which  we  found 
ourselves  seated  was  delantera  de  gradas,  and  it 
turned  out  to  mean  a  row  of  leather-cushioned  set- 
tees ranged  close  to  the  railing  of  the  balcony.  They 
were  movable,  and  across  a  narrow  passageway  be- 
hind them  rose  more  and  more  tiers  of  fixed  seats, 
more  comfortable  than  those  below  and  covered 
by  the  roof  of  the  ring  proper,  —  or  better  by  the 
flooring  of  the  boxes  above.  For  the  topmost  row 
of  places  was  given  up  to  boxes  of  equal  size,  save 
where  the  royal  apartment  projected  above  the 
heads  of  those  below,  and  the  balcony  of  the  presi- 
dent of  the  games  made  itself  apparent  just  above 
the  main  entrance.  There  is  always  a  distinction 
drawn  between  the  seats  in  the  sun  and  those  in  the 
shade,  the  latter  being  as  a  rule  the  more  desirable 
and  therefore  more  expensive.  But  on  this  particu- 
lar Sunday  we  shivered  in  our  seats  and  envied 
those  who  received  the  few  pale  rays  which  the 
afternoon  sun  vouchsafed  to  send  down  upon 
Madrid. 

The  arena  proper  proved  to  be  a  huge  open  circle 


200  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

of  yellow  sand  around  which,  in  a  perfect  amphi- 
theatre, rose  the  thousands  of  seats.  They  were 
already  rilling  with  an  excited  throng,  although 
many  still  loitered  in  the  level  area  below,  discuss- 
ing the  prospect  of  the  day's  sport,  and,  I  presume, 
wagering  their  sesterces  on  the  blood  of  the  six  bulls, 
although  I  have  not  been  able  to  understand  what 
there  is  to  lay  wagers  upon.  It  is  a  moral  certainty 
that  the  bull  will  be  killed,  and  that  many  horses 
will  be  disemboweled  and  slain,  but  hardly  prob- 
able that  any  man  will  be  so  much  as  scratched. 
Possibly  there  is  ample  room  for  betting  on  the 
way  the  animals  will  die  and  on  the  thousand  and 
one  fine  points  that  we  outlanders  do  not  in  the 
slightest  comprehend. 

All  around  the  arena  in  which  the  actual  fight- 
ing was  to  take  place  there  ran  a  narrow  corridor, 
separated  from  the  ring  by  a  barrier  several  feet  in 
height,  —  supposedly  high  enough  to  keep  the  bulls 
inside  during  the  conflict,  but  not  too  high  to  pre- 
vent the  fighters  from  leaping  into  a  place  of  safety 
when  too  hotly  pursued.  Active  and  unusually 
angry  bulls  have  been  known  to  leap  over  this 
fence,  I  am  told,  and  when  that  happens  there 
is  a  large  chance  that  somebody  will  be  killed  or 
maimed.  The  barrier  was  pierced  by  numerous 
gates,  and  until  the  fight  was  about  to  begin  these 
stood  open,  admitting  the  crowd  freely  to  wander 
about,  conversing  in  little  knots. 

At  the  appointed  hour  a  trumpet  sounded  and 


IN  OLD  MADRID  201 

the  ring  was  speedily  cleared,  most  of  its  occupants 
betaking  themselves  to  the  seats  nearest  the  arena, 
where  they  packed  themselves  in  tightly,  content 
to  sit  there  as  long  as  might  be  necessary.  Exit 
from  such  seats  is  a  matter  of  great  difficulty,  and 
we  had  been  warned  against  them.  As  soon  as  the 
ring  was  entirely  clear,  the  gates  swung  open  and 
the  fighters  entered  in  a  splendid  procession.  They 
gave  the  needed  touch  of  color,  for  the  dense  throng 
of  spectators  rising  on  every  hand  was  a  sombre 
spectacle,  composed  mostly  of  men  and  sadly  lack- 
ing the  lively  hues  that  Spanish  women  with  their 
fans  and  gay  costumes  might  have  given  on  a  more 
balmy  day.  In  the  advancing  band  of  toreros,  how- 
ever, there  was  an  abundance  of  good  cheer.  They 
were  gay  with  red  and  blue  and  tinsel.  Even  their 
black  cocked  hats  had  an  air  of  alert  life,  and  the 
flaunting  capes  lent  animation  as  well  as  color.  On 
foot  came  the  men  whose  duty  it  was  to  excite  the 
bull  and  divert  him  from  making  human  sacrifice. 
On  horseback  came  the  picadores,  armed  with  long 
lances,  whose  function  is  never  to  kill,  but  to  infuri- 
ate the  beast  and  get  their  horses  gored  if  possible. 
Also  there  were  matador  es, —  the  swordsmen  who 
do  the  actual  killing  in  the  end. 

These  gorgeous  creatures  encircled  the  arena, 
followed  by  a  gruesome  team  of  horses  or  mules, 
dragging  a  tackle  which  was  intended  for  hauling 
off  the  dead  bodies  of  bulls  and  steeds.  They  halted 
before  the  box  of  the  presiding  officer,  made  stately 


202  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

obeisance  in  his  direction,  and  disappeared.  Two 
horsemen  in  black  then  cantered  around  the  ring, 
making  sure  everything  was  snug,  received  the 
official  key  flung  down  from  the  hands  of  the  presi- 
dent, unlocked  the  door  from  which  the  bulls  were 
to  enter,  and  then  dashed  madly  out  of  the  arena 
as  if  all  the  herds  of  Andalusia  were  after  them. 
The  crowd  sat  in  a  breathless  hush  on  the  edges  of 
the  seats,  expectantly  eyeing  the  grim  portal  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  ring  from  where  we  sat. 

Slowly  it  swung  on  its  hinges,  and  from  its  shade 
a  dun  bull  advanced  suspiciously  into  the  open, 
shaking  his  magnificent  head  with  its  wicked  horns. 
The  gates  of  the  barrier  clanged  behind  him,  and 
he  gazed  to  right  and  left  in  stupid  bewilderment, 
evidently  astonished  at  finding  himself  in  an  un- 
wonted spot.  He  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  huge  and 
perfect  circle  with  thousands  of  men  looking  down 
upon  him,  no  longer  silent  but  yelling  their  encour- 
agement or  their  derision.  Far  away  across  the 
sand  were  gesticulating  figures  in  gay  attire,  wav- 
ing banners  of  a  color  that  he  loathed,  and  advanc- 
ing gingerly  in  his  direction.  The  bull  snorted, 
lowered  his  head,  and  charged  for  the  nearest  pica- 
dor, who  braced  himself  with  leveled  lance  on  the 
back  of  his  poor,  doomed  horse.  It  took  place  at 
our  very  feet.  The  poor  animal,  blindfolded  as  he 
was,  had  no  possible  chance  to  save  himself,  and 
knew  nothing  of  the  furious  creature  bearing  down 
upon  him.  I  dosed  my  own  eyes  and  waited  for 


IN  OLD  MADRID  203 

the  agonized  shriek  which  should  tell  me  that  the 
horse  was  fatally  hurt.  None  came.  I  opened  my 
eyes  cautiously  again,  and  saw  what  was  far  worse 
than  a  dead  horse,  —  for  the  horns  had  not  inflicted 
a  deathblow,  but  had  merely  gashed  the  side  of 
the  poor  beast,  and  his  rider  was  urging  him, 
maimed  as  he  was  and  bleeding  frightfully,  to  his 
feet.  He  himself  had  not  been  unhorsed,  but  had 
punctured  the  bull's  tough  hide  with  his  spear. 
The  chulos  with  their  capes  were  scampering  over 
the  yellow  sands  trailing  their  red-maroon  cloths 
and  tolling  the  bull  after  them.  He  made  for  the 
other  horse,  and  I  closed  my  eyes  once  more.  When 
I  opened  them  again  the  second  horse  was  down 
and  obviously  done  for.  His  rider  had  jumped  and 
vaulted  over  the  barrier,  while  the  chulos  once  more 
tolled  the  infuriated  monster  away.  Happily  an  at- 
tendant dispatched  the  dying  horse  with  a  poniard 
and  left  him  convulsively  kicking  in  his  death 
agony.  It  was  sickening,  and  I  shall  not  again  speak 
of  the  repeated  assaults  on  these  decrepit  hacks, 
which  quite  as  often  were  not  killed,  but  staggered, 
half -eviscerated,  around  the  arena  until  their  tire.d 
legs  would  bear  them  up  no  more.  To  all  this  I  dis- 
creetly shut  my  eyes,  —  else  I  fear  I  should  not 
have  remained  to  see  the  ultimate  slaughter  of  even 
a  single  bull. 

To  our  unbounded  relief  a  trumpet  speedily 
sounded  the  end  of  this,  the  first  act  of  the  drama ; 
and  the  horses  that  remained  alive  were  led  out  of 


204  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

the  ring,  leaving  the  field  to  the  men  on  foot.  This 
was  better,  surely.  The  men,  at  least,  were  there 
because  they  wished  to  be,  and  with  their  skill 
apparently  stood  in  no  great  peril.  Besides,  the 
second  act  promised  something  more  enlivening 
than  the  goring  of  a  few  wretched  horses  who  could 
see  nothing,  —  something  savoring  of  dexterity 
and  nerve.  The  chulos  remained  in  the  game  with 
their  flaunting  capes,  which  the  bull  invariably 
menaced  with  his  reeking  horns,  preferring  to  ex- 
pend his  fury  on  these  and  to  ignore  the  men.  Now 
and  then  a  cape  would  be  dropped,  and  without 
it  the  chulo  would  vault  lightly  over  the  barrier 
to  wait  until  a  chance  offered  for  recovering  his 
weapon.  Now  came  the  banderilleros,  the  men  with 
ribboned  darts,  who  to  my  mind  afford  the  chief 
excitement  of  a  bullfight.  One  of  these  standing 
entirely  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  arena  extended 
both  arms  toward  the  bull,  who  had  halted  oppo- 
site him  regarding  him  with  shaking  head.  In  each 
hand  he  waved  a  bunch  of  gaudy  ribbons.  It  was 
too  much.  The  bull  dropped  his  head  and  made 
for  him  at  full  speed,  lumbering  over  the  sands 
with  terrific  momentum.  Calmly  the  banderillero 
awaited  him,  not  a  muscle  moving,  arms  still  ex- 
tended and  darts  poised.  Then,  just  as  the  bull  was 
upon  him,  he  leaped  lightly  to  one  side,  drove  the 
darts  down  into  the  neck  of  the  brute  as  it  thun- 
dered past  him,  and  a  chulo  with  trailing  scarf  drew 
the  animal  on.  The  surrounding  thousands  burst 


IN   OLD   MADRID  205 

into  a  roar  of  applause,  and  I  confess  that  I  ap- 
plauded too.  For  it  was  masterly  well  done. 

This  continued  for  some  time,  several  performers 
planting  their  barbs  in  the  neck  and  back  of  the 
bull,  who  was  growing  tired  and  losing  his  fighting 
spirit  instead  of  gaining  it.  He  proved  to  be  but  a 
poor  beast,  after  all,  and  his  nerve  was  gone.  He 
stood  irresolute  and  pawed  the  sand  for  minutes 
at  a  time,  while  the  crowd  called  him  vaca  (cow), 
and  demanded  fireworks  to  enliven  him,  —  con- 
sidered, I  believe,  a  disgraceful  last  resort  to  en- 
courage coward  bulls.  These  latter  were  speedily 
forthcoming,  the  banderillero  planting  them  in  his 
adversary's  bleeding  shoulders  with  the  customary 
precision,  whereat  the  squibs  they  contained  ex- 
ploded. But  it  was  of  no  avail,  and  the  trumpet 
impatiently  sounded  the  last  act,  —  the  matador 
with  his  sword. 

He  came  from  his  retreat  under  the  building,  — 
a  handsome,  alert  figure  attired  in  magnificent, 
tight-fitting  raiment.  In  his  hands  he  bore  a  keen, 
flexible  blade  and  a  bright  scarlet  cape.  In  a  few 
words  which  we  could  not  catch  he  addressed  the 
president,  apparently  asking  permission  to  kill  this 
bull  for  the  honor  of  the  citizens  of  Madrid,  —  and 
then  turned  to  his  work.  But  it  was  a  sorry  oppor- 
tunity for  any  skill.  The  brute  was  now  absolutely 
tired  out,  and  refused  to  be  harried  into  life  again. 
In  vain  did  matador  and  the  lively  chulos  wave  their 
red  cloths  in  his  bewildered  face.  He  backed  away 


206  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

from  them  all,  and  at  last — crowning  disgrace!  — 
retired  to  the  other  side  of  the  ring  and  lay  wearily 
down,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I'm  tired  of  all  this. 
Come  and  kill  me,  and  let  us  have  it  over."  I  had 
never  expected  to  pity  a  bull  as  I  had  so  recently 
pitied  the  poor  horses  slaughtered  to  make  a  Ma- 
drileno's  holiday.  But  here  was  a  tired  brute,  as 
devoid  of  fight  as  a  sleepy  kitten,  mutely  begging 
to  be  allowed  to  die ! 

The  matador  in  disgust  went  up  and  dispatched 
him  with  a  blow.  The  crowd  were  angry,  of  course, 
and  heaped  derisive  epithets  on  the  carcass  as  it 
was  dragged  ingloriously  out,  and  the  dead  horses 
after  it.  The  evidences  of  the  carnage  were  covered 
with  fresh  sand  and  in  a  trice  the  trumpet  sounded 
for  the  second  bull. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  this  second  killing 
in  detail,  although  I  remained  to  see  it  through. 
This  beast  had  more  fire  than  the  first,  and  from 
the  moment  when  he  charged  into  the  ring  sent  the 
chulos  scampering  in  hot  haste  for  the  protection  of 
the  barrier.  But  the  game  soon  steadied  down  to  a 
tiresome  repetition  of  the  first  one,  —  the  same  end- 
less flaunting  of  banners,  the  same  goring  of  horses, 
the  daring  feats  of  the  banderilleros,  and  finally 
another  killing  by  a  second  matador,  who  had  more 
of  a  task  before  him  than  the  first.  For  this  bull 
did  not  lie  down  and  beg  for  mercy  or  for  death. 
He  kept  the  runners  busy,  and  the  swordsman  had 
an  opportunity  to  show  his  skill  by  piercing  his 


IN   OLD    MADRID  207 

spinal  marrow  neatly  as  the  great  head  dashed  by 
him,  —  in  pursuit,  as  usual,  of  a  red  flag.  There 
was,  however,  one  moment  of  very  real  excitement 
and  danger.  A  picador,  impaling  the  bull  upon  his 
lance  as  his  horse  went  down,  was  unable  to  with- 
draw the  weapon  and  found  himself  pinned  under 
the  animal  with  the  bull  glaring  down  upon  him. 
The  roar  which  had  greeted  the  assault  froze  on  the 
lips  of  the  crowd,  and  the  angry  bull  lowered  his 
horns,  unmindful  of  the  frantic  chulos  and  their 
scarfs.  This  time  I  could  not  close  my  eyes,  — 
the  scene  fascinated  me  far  too  much,  awful  as  it 
was.  The  terrified  picador  was  caught  on  the  horns 
and  tossed,  —  fell  among  his  fellows,  who  instantly 
formed  a  cordon  around  him,  and  was  hurried, 
protesting  and  struggling,  to  a  hospital.  A  daring 
fighter  managed  to  get  the  bull's  attention  and 
drew  him  away.  And  the  fight  went  on. 

Next  day  we  learned  that  the  wounded  picador 
had  received  a  serious  cut  from  the  sharp  horns  of 
the  animal,  and  would  not  be  able  to  appear  again 
for  some  time.  He  was  treated  at  the  hospital  ad- 
joining the  arena,  for  such  an  institution  is  always 
handy,  and  eke  a  chaplain  to  shrive  any  torero  who 
by  any  chance  may  be  fatally  hurt.  It  is  also  said 
that  a  chapel  is  likewise  connected  with  the  bull- 
ring, and  that  it  is  the  custom  of  these  hired  butch- 
ers to  prepare  themselves  for  their  dangerous  game 
by  prayer  and  devotion. 

I  am  now  prepared  heartily  to  echo  the  sentiment 


208  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

expressed  by  the  clergyman  quoted  in  the  guide- 
books, who  says  he  came  away  from  the  bull-ring 
"bored"  by  the  spectacle.  For  I  was  even  more 
bored  than  disgusted  by  it,  if  that  be  possible. 
Surely  nothing  could  be  duller.  Always  it  was  the 
same  skillful  toying  with  a  senseless  creature,  too 
clumsy  to  be  especially  dangerous  to  an  expert 
fighter,  and  seldom  capable  of  being  stirred  to  more 
than  a  passing  frenzy.  The  bull  was  the  one  par- 
ticipant who  never  had  any  chance  at  all,  if  one 
except  the  poor  horses  who  had  no  function  to 
perform  but  to  stand  and  be  gored,  thus  serving 
as  living  incitements  to  the  fury  of  the  bull, — 
an  improvement  over  the  red  capes  because  they 
would  bleed  and  suffer,  while  a  bloodthirsty  crowd 
looked  on  and  rubbed  its  hands  with  delight !  And 
yet  these  same  people  could  be  all  kindness  and 
courtesy  to  the  stranger,  devout  Christians,  lov- 
ing husbands  and  wives,  gentle  toward  animals 
and  passionately  fond  of  little  children !  How  can 
one  reconcile  this  lovable  side  of  the  Spanish  char- 
acter with  its  devotion  to  bullfighting?  It  is  a 
passion  that  no  power  has  been  able  to  eradi- 
cate. Popes  have  fulminated  against  it  in  vain  to 
these  most  Catholic  subjects  of  the  Most  Catholic 
King,  —  and  yet  bullfighting  goes  on  with  unabated 
vigor. 

I  came  away  while  the  third  bull  was  being 
baited.  He  was  no  more  vicious  than  the  first,  and 
the  killing  of  him  was  evidently  to  be  the  same  old 


IN   OLD   MADRID  209 

story  over  again.  At  the  pension  the  charming 
Senorita  Rosario  inquired  how  we  enjoyed  it. 

11  Not  at  all,'*  said  we. 

"Ah,  no!"  she  replied.  "Nor  do  I.  The  bulls 
are  not  so  bad,  but  the  horses,  —  it  is  not  pleasing ! 
You  will  without  doubt  desire  some  viskee  or  some 
cognac  ?  No  ?  Most  Americanos  and  most  Ingleses 
do  so!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

TOLEDO 

THE  ancient  and  honorable  city  of  Toledo  lies  to 
the  southward  of  Madrid,  somewhat  to  one  side 
of  the  main  highway  of  travel,  on  the  very  verges  of 
Castile.  It  is  near  enough  to  be  made  the  object  of 
a  day's  excursion  from  Madrid  as  a  base,  and  many 
find  this  amply  sufficient  to  satisfy  them.  It  boasts 
hotels  of  every  grade  of  price,  however,  from  out- 
rageous extortion  to  moderate  reasonableness,  so 
that  it  is  possible  to  remain  there  for  some  days  in 
tolerable  comfort  if  one  desires.  As  is  the  case  with 
nearly  all  adjacent  towns  to  which  the  tourist 
travel  is  extensive,  the  railroads  offer  tickets  for  the 
round  trip  (ida  y  vuelta)  at  generously  low  rates, 
though  these  are  generally  limited  as  to  time. 

It  was  with  the  idea  of  spending  no  more  than 
that  day  in  Toledo  that  we  presented  ourselves  at 
the  Atocha  station  —  the  southern  terminal  of 
Madrid  —  one  misty,  moisty  morning.  A  quite 
needless  interpreter  of  the  predatory  sort  vainly 
endeavored  to  assist  in  the  purchase  of  tickets  at 
the  second-class  window,  but  we  laughed  him  to 
scorn.  One  rapidly  learns  to  depend  on  one's  self 
for  such  things  in  Spain,  where  the  unbiquitous 


IN  THE   STREETS  OF  TOLEDO 


TOLEDO  211 

Cook  has  established  but  few  outposts ;  and  by  this 
time  we  had  lost  all  fear  of  the  Spanish  ticket  agent 
and  could  by  due  diligence  protect  ourselves  even 
against  the  false  change  for  which  these  gentry  are 
notorious.  For  this  the  safest  method  is  to  calcu- 
late the  fare  in  advance  from  the  printed  tariffs  and 
approach  the  office  with  the  exact  price  in  hand,  so 
that  there  may  be  no  change,  bad  or  otherwise,  to 
reckon  with. 

The  day  promised  little  in  the  way  of  weather 
save  showers  and  gloom.  The  clouds  hung  low  over 
the  deserted  steppes  through  which  the  railway  led 
southward,  and  withal  it  was  damp  and  cold.  The 
second-class  coach,  with  its  usual  quota  of  four 
small  wheels,  jolted  tediously  along  with  windows 
tightly  closed  against  the  outer  bleakness,  while  the 
occupants  smoked,  read  their  morning  papers,  and 
stared  intermittently  at  the  foreigners.  The  scenery 
was  of  little  interest  for  many  miles,  being  a  mere 
open  moor,  or  prairie  of  slight  undulations,  across 
which  solitary  figures  here  and  there,  huddled  on 
the  backs  of  patient  burros,  wended  a  leisurely  way 
along  the  scarcely  discernible  trails.  They  looked 
wet  and  miserable.  Nevertheless,  despite  the  fact 
that  there  was  no  great  amount  of  life  visible,  the 
stations  were  by  no  means  few,  and  the  train  was 
continually  halting  at  them,  the  hyphenated  names 
indicating  that  different  settlements  lay  concealed 
in  the  hollows  at  some  distance  on  either  side  and 
used  the  station  in  common.  Now  and  then  we 


212  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

could  catch  sight  of  one  of  these  distant  towns 
nestling  under  a  bare,  brown  knoll  in  the  prairie,  its 
buildings  closely  set  and  gloomy  in  color,  the  red- 
brown  tiles  invariably  dominated  by  a  single,  dark 
church  tower.  Rarely  indeed  did  the  sun  send  down 
a  ray  as  we  puffed  and  whistled  our  way  across  this 
barren  desert,  but  everywhere  was  a  sky  that 
seemed  about  to  weep.  Decidedly  it  was  a  cheer- 
less and  depressing  prospect ;  and  we  wrapped  the 
drapery  of  our  raincoats  about  us  and  sat  down  to 
return  the  stares  of  the  passengers  with  interest. 

It  was  a  run  of  about  two  hours  to  Toledo,  and  as 
the  train  made  fair  progress  this  meant  that  the 
distance  was  about  fifty  miles.  As  we  began  to 
draw  near  the  city  the  scenery  visibly  brightened, 
and  even  the  sky  grew  a  trifle  more  promising.  The 
train  clattered  across  the  infant  Tagus  on  an  iron 
trestle  and  proceeded  down  its  narrow  valley, 
which  broadened  gradually  and  grew  greener  as  an 
earnest  of  the  broad  and  fertile  vega  which  lies  be- 
hind Toledo's  rocky  heights.  Occasional  breaks  in 
the  pall  of  cloud  permitted  long,  slanting  bars  of 
golden  light  to  touch  here  and  there  on  the  land- 
scape, and  at  length  as  we  swept  around  a  bend  in 
the  river  one  of  these  fell  upon  the  lofty  towers  and 
spires  of  Toledo  and  gilded  all  with  its  cheerful  beam. 

As  usual  the  station  was  an  outlying  one,  un- 
kempt and  poor.  Its  platform  was  alive  with  a  tat- 
terdemalion horde  clamoring  for  pence,  for  employ- 
ment, for  a  limosnita,  for  the  patronage  of  decrepit 


TOLEDO  213 

carriages,  for  the  high  privilege  of  guiding  the  senor 
and  senoras  to  the  city  and  through  it,  —  for  any- 
thing, in  short,  which  would  tend  to  relieve  the  gen- 
eral poverty.  We  steeled  our  hearts,  scorned  the 
carriages  that  filled  the  roadway  outside,  and  set 
off  up  the  road  for  the  city  at  a  brisk  walk  that  soon 
discouraged  the  native  peasantry  and  left  them  well 
in  the  rear.  Toledo  had  mysteriously  disappeared 
again,  but  we  knew  it  could  not  be  far  away,  and 
soon  we  came  upon  it  towering  on  the  steeps  of  a 
river  bluff,  a  huge  square  alcizar  with  its  corner 
steeples  at  the  summit  of  it  all.  Below,  in  a  deep 
and  narrow  gorge,  brawled  the  greenish-yellow 
Tagus,  —  no  inconsiderable  river  even  at  this  early 
stage  of  its  career. 

The  city  of  Toledo,  like  many  another  in  Spain, 
occupies  a  site  that  nature  plainly  intended  for  de- 
fense. The  stream,  forcing  its  way  through  a  ravine 
in  the  granite  hills,  has  worn  a  great  horseshoe, 
shaped  almost  like  a  capital  "C,"  inclosed  in  which 
is  the  prodigious  rock  on  which  the  city  stands. 
The  river  thus  makes  an  admirable  moat  on  every 
side,  save  where  the  narrow  opening  in  the  "C" 
permits  an  isthmus  of  meadow  to  connect  it  with 
the  vega.  Everywhere  the  river-banks  are  precipi- 
tous and  rocky  and,  though  not  lofty,  are  no  mean 
bulwark,  even  now.  In  the  ancient  days,  when  this 
was  the  proud  capital  of  Castile,  it  was  a  site  diffi- 
cult to  take  and  easy  to  hold.  Once  it  boasted  a 
population  of  two  hundred  thousand.  To-day  it 


214  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

has  but  an  eighth  of  that  number,  and  we  speedily 
concluded  that  the  great  majority  of  these  were  in 
the  begging  business,  which  achieves  its  greatest 
activity  in  this  ruined  stronghold  of  the  past. 

As  the  road  wound  around  the  shoulder 'of  the 
rugged  heights  opposite  the  city,  we  came  upon 
the  lofty  and  imposing  bridge  which  now  affords 
the  chief  access  to  the  town.  It  is  a  Moorish  work, 
as  its  name  —  Alcantara — would  imply;  for  any 
name  having  an  "al"  about  it  may  be  set  down  at 
once  as  Moorish  in  origin,  and  this  particular  word 
signifies  merely  "the  bridge."  It  is  probable,  how- 
ever, that  the  upper  portions  of  the  structure  are  of 
a  later  date,  and  possibly  are  the  work  of  Alfonso 
the  Wise.  To-day  it  consists  of  a  great,  bold  arch 
springing  over  the  main  part  of  the  river  at  a  bound, 
followed  on  the  city  side  by  a  second  and  much 
lower  arch.  These  serve  to  bear  up  a  very  narrow 
roadway  high  above  the  river ;  and  the  whole  is  pro- 
tected, as  is  the  case  in  all  such  bridges,  by  stalwart 
towers  of  stone  at  either  end.  Over  this  narrow 
highway  we  found  a  great  concourse  of  people  pass- 
ing, mostly  in  the  direction  of  the  city.  The  morn- 
ing train  had  come,  its  meagre  harvest  had  been 
gathered,  and  the  citizens  of  Toledo  were  hastening 
back  to  town  to  dispose  themselves  in  points  of 
vantage  for  a  fresh  assault  on  invading  visitors. 

Directly  behind  us  and  towering  well  overhead 
rose  the  rocky  height  that  fronts  Toledo  just  across 
the  gorge,  —  a  lofty  river  bluff  topped  by  a  ruined 


TOLEDO  215 

castle,  or  what  looks  like  one.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
it  was  originally  a  well-fortified  convent,  sacred  to 
"San  Cervantes,"  — who,  it  need  scarcely  be  added, 
had  nothing  to  do  with  Don  Quixote,  although  the 
creator  of  that  worthy  knight  did  at  one  time  in- 
habit Toledo.  San  Cervantes  possesses  no  especial 
interest  to-day,  but  its  ruined  walls  certainly  make 
a  picturesque  environ  for  the  city,  and  are  ad- 
mirably suited  to  the  wildness  of  the  ravine  whose 
sides  they  overhang. 

The  major  part  of  the  invading  procession  that 
thus  filed  across  the  Alcantara  wound  its  way  along 
the  gradual  highroad  leading  by  wide  detours  and 
windings  up  to  the  city  on  the  side  toward  the  plain. 
We,  however,  took  a  leaf  out  of  the  book  of  the  local 
peasantry  and  scrambled  up  a  long  flight  of  stone 
steps  that  gave  immediate  access  to  the  height  fac- 
ing the  river,  and  speedily  had  the  tall,  thin  struc- 
ture of  the  Alcantara  at  our  feet,  looking  more  like 
a  child's  toy  than  a  bridge  of  imposing  magnitude. 
To  one  approaching  Toledo  on  foot  this  is  decidedly 
the  best  way  to  come,  both  for  directness  and  for 
the  view.  From  the  summit  one  looks  back  on  the 
bridge  with  its  tawny  gates,  the  winding  road,  the 
green  rapids  of  the  river  two  hundred  feet  below, 
the  ruggedness  of  San  Cervantes,  and  the  broaden- 
ing vega  stretching  off  to  the  north  and  losing  itself 
around  the  shoulder  of  the  range  of  hills.  To  the 
right  the  river  hastens  on,  and  soon  vanishes  in  the 
winding  depths  of  the  precipitous  glen. 


216  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

The  way  grew  less  abrupt  now,  and  we  turned 
toward  the  nearer  buildings  of  the  city.  The  al- 
cazar still  towered  high  above  and  far  away  on  the 
very  crest  of  the  hill,  but  Toledo  proper  lay  much 
lower  down.  On  the  way  we  passed  what  was  once 
the  Hospital  of  Santa  Cruz,  —  now,  I  believe,  a 
part  of  a  military  school.  It  was  a  building  just 
then  in  the  throes  of  vigorous  restoration,  but  even 
the  masses  of  scaffolding  could  not  conceal  its 
charm,  which  resides  chiefly  in  lofty  halls,  spacious 
corridors,  and  splendid  arcades,  the  second  stories 
of  which  are  reached  by  a  thoroughly  satisfactory 
and  eminently  beautiful  staircase.  Outwardly,  the 
Santa  Cruz  would  not  merit  one's  pausing,  and  its 
over-ornate  portal  is  to  my  mind  grossly  over- 
praised. Within,  however,  it  is  delightful,  and  it  is 
to  be  hoped  that  the  restoration  now  going  on  will 
not  mar  what  even  in  decay  was  so  perfect. 

We  came  into  the  chief  square  of  the  city  before 
we  were  aware,  entering  it  abruptly  through  an 
arch  that  pierced  the  surrounding  rows  of  houses. 
It  was  a  delightful  square,  —  for  one  may  surely 
call  a  triangle  a  square  in  Spain  as  well  as  in  Boston, 
—  almost  completely  surrounded  and  inclosed  by 
a  cincture  of  balconied  buildings,  old  and  weather- 
stained  and  highly  picturesque.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  that  it  was  a  city  once  Moorish  in  character, 
and  even  the  name  of  this  great  central  plaza  — 
the  Zocodover  —  was  a  direct  inheritance  of  the 
Mohammedan  days.  Zocodover,  indeed,  was  an 


TOLEDO  217 

old  friend,  etymologically ;  for  its  primal  syllables 
were  nothing  more  nor  less  than  another  form  of 
the  "Soko"  which  Tangier  so  long  before  had  made 
familiar  to  us.  A  few  booths  were  scattered  about 
in  the  open  space,  which  comprised  not  far  from  an 
acre  of  ground ;  but  there  was  evidently  no  market 
that  day,  and  the  greater  proportion  of  the  square's 
occupants  were  idlers.  They  afforded  little  interest 
in  themselves,  compared  with  the  quaint  structures 
that  hemmed  them  in,  almost  every  house  adorned 
with  an  overhanging  balcony  which  was  neither 
Moorish,  nor  yet  Spanish,  in  appearance.  The 
whole  effect  was  more  that  of  a  stage-setting  than 
of  reality,  and  to  this  illusion  both  design  and  col- 
oring contributed. 

The  obviously  Moorish  character  of  the  city 
came  more  strongly  to  our  attention  when  we 
plunged  into  the  devious  and  gloomy  streets  that 
lead  one  down  from  the  Zocodover  to  the  vicinity 
of  the  cathedral.  The  latter  is  most  unfortunately 
placed,  and  one  gets  no  idea  even  of  its  presence 
from  afar.  Lofty  as  its  graceful  spire  is,  it  cannot 
make  itself  prominent  because  of  the  deep  hollow 
in  which  this  famous  old  church  is  set.  As  a  con- 
sequence, we  got  our  first  view  of  it  in  a  vista  down 
a  gloomy  street,  its  fine  top  and  graceful  belfry  sil- 
houetted against  a  sodden  sky;  but  from  every 
other  point  it  remained  either  wholly  concealed  or 
hopelessly  dwarfed.  It  is  unfortunate,  for  the  cathe- 
dral of  Toledo  is  a  magnificent  one,  as  well  befits 


218  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

the  primate  church  of  the  realm.  This  one  glory, 
little  as  it  means  nowadays,  has  at  least  remained 
to  Toledo,  —  that  of  being  the  chief  archiepiscopal 
see  of  Spain,  —  which  honor  was  conferred  upon 
the  city  in  the  days  of  Alfonso  VI,  of  Castile,  because 
of  a  certain  remarkable  miracle  with  which  we  shall 
later  have  more  to  do. 

We  plunged  down  the  steep  and  slimy  pavement 
toward  the  distant  spire,  avoiding  donkeys  and 
pedestrians  as  best  we  could,  and  soon  discovered 
that  to  obtain  any  broad  general  view  of  the  cathe- 
dral as  a  whole  was  hopeless.  The  adjacent  build- 
ings encroach  too  closely  upon  it  at  either  side,  and 
it  is  only  by  ascending  a  hill  opposite  its  main  en- 
trances that  one  gets  any  proper  idea  of  its  facade. 
It  is  one  of  the  finest  Gothic  churches  in  Spain, 
spared  somewhat  of  that  painful  excess  of  elabora- 
tion one  learns  to  dislike  so  much  in  such  churches 
as  that  at  Salamanca.  In  style  it  is  North-French 
Gothic  of  the  earlier  period,  entirely  devoid  of  pro- 
jecting transepts,  as  is  quite  the  usual  order  of 
things  in  Spain,  and  possessed  of  the  common  semi- 
circular apse. 

We  hastened  at  once  into  the  broad  cloisters,  — 
easily  one  of  the  cathedral's  greatest  charms,  —  and 
thence  down  a  flight  of  steps  into  the  great  build- 
ing itself.  It  is  a  cathedral  falling  into  the  light- 
and-cheerful  class,  striking  one  with  some  little 
surprise  on  that  account  as  one  enters.  I  believe 
it  was  once  rather  proud  of  being  lamentably  white- 


TOLEDO  219 

washed,  but  that  outrage  apparently  had  been  out- 
grown when  we  were  there,  and  the  building-stones 
were  merely  light  yellow,  as  in  their  native  state. 
The  loftiness  and  lightness  of  the  nave  and  the 
great  sweep  of  the  double  aisles  prevented  the  in- 
trusion of  the  choir-screen  from  being  especially 
troublesome;  and  the  impression  was  commend- 
ably  free  from  that  sense  of  being  cramped  and 
fettered  that  one  feels  in  so  many  Spanish  cathe- 
drals. 

This  was  not,  however,  the  proper  time  for  seeing 
the  cathedral's  glories,  as  a  persistent  boy  soon 
made  us  aware.  It  was  one  more  of  those  churches 
where  the  sight-seeing  is  regulated  by  ticket ; 
and  at  all  other  than  the  stated  times  the  visitor 
is  barred  inexorably  from  a  full  inspection.  We 
gathered  from  the  guidebooks  that  the  necessary 
"  permissions  "were  to  be  had  in  the  claustro  alto, 
or  upper  cloisters,  wherever  those  might  be ;  but  if 
it  had  not  been  for  the  before-mentioned  persistent 
boy,  I  doubt  if  I  should  ever  have  found  them. 
He  towed  me  across  the  churchyard  by  the  hem 
of  my  garment,  and  thence  across  the  narrow  street 
to  a  narrow  and  forbidding  doorway  that  gave  no 
promise  whatever  of  leading  toward  the  cathedral. 
However,  a  flight  of  breakneck  stairs  led  up  into  the 
darkness,  and  I  followed  the  sound  of  the  lad's 
heels  as  he  scrambled  upward.  When  we  had  at- 
tained a  height  that  seemed  only  less  than  half  that 
of  Bunker  Hill's  justly  celebrated  monument,  we 


220  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

came  upon  a  Bridge  of  Sighs  spanning  the  highway, 
which  had  escaped  my  notice  from  below ;  and  on 
this  we  crossed  to  the  upper  cloisters,  lying  directly 
above  the  others,  but  not  nearly  so  picturesque. 
The  lad  evidently  knew  where  he  was  going,  and 
led  me  unresisting  down  a  long  and  echoing  corridor 
to  a  door  which  stood  ajar,  this  giving  access  to  a 
tiny  room  in  which  two  corpulent  priests  in  long 
black  gowns  were  lolling  in  easy  chairs,  luxuriously 
consuming  what  Pepys  would  have  called  a  "  morn- 
ing draught."  With  much  voluble  explanation  and 
dickering,  the  boy  finally  made  them  understand 
what  was  wanted,  and  I  departed  a  few  moments 
later  bearing  an  array  of  tickets  that  promised 
admittance  to  everything  interesting  and  otherwise, 
at  half-past  two  that  afternoon,  —  not  one  second 
before. 

Armed  with  these  passports  to  clerical  considera- 
tion, and  assured  that  nothing  churchly  would  be 
visible  until  the  appointed  hour,  we  managed  to 
get  rid  of  the  boy  by  making  a  definite  appoint- 
ment with  him  for  the  afternoon  tour.  And  thus, 
set  free  from  all  guidance  save  that  of  an  open  map, 
we  plunged  gayly  into  the  labyrinthine  streets  that 
help  to  make  Toledo  famous.  It  is  a  maze  that 
offers  a  sufficiency  of  hindrances  to  navigation,  and 
the  traveler  without  a  serviceable  "bump  of  lo- 
cality" will  do  well  to  surrender  at  the  start  to  the 
army  of  guides.  So  able  an  investigator  as  the 
British  architect,  Street,  whose  writings  form  so 


TOLEDO  221 

inexhaustible  a  mine  of  information  on  all  Gothic 
subjects,  confesses  with  some  shame  that  he  was 
completely  balked  by  the  windings  of  Toledo,  and 
was  forced  to  hire  a  boy  to  show  him  the  way 
about.  The  sense  of  direction  and  a  good  map,  such 
as  any  guidebook  offers,  should  serve  sufficiently 
well  to-day ;  but  even  with  these  we  made  many  a 
wrong  turning,  and  often  berated  the  Toledan  gov- 
ernment for  not  affixing  more  street  signs  to  the  in- 
numerable corners.  It  is  not  that  one  can  possibly 
get  lost  for  very  long  in  the  byways  of  the  city  that 
makes  a  guide  so  desirable  to  a  bewildered  visitor ; 
it  is  simply  that  if  one's  time  is  brief  a  great  deal 
is  likely  to  be  wasted  in  wandering. 

This  we  proved  in  trying  to  find  the  little  church 
of  Cristo  de  la  Luz,  after  we  had  eluded  the  last  of 
the  urchins  that  infested  the  immediate  vicinage 
of  the  cathedral.  We  speedily  lost  ourselves  in  the 
deep  Moorish  alleys  and  side  streets,  and  made 
several  fruitless  explorations  of  deep  hollows  among 
the  buildings  before  we  came  upon  it.  It  was  during 
one  of  these  expeditions  to  the  end  of  an  obscure 
cul  de  sac  that  we  heard  a  concealed  minstrel  sing- 
ing a  wild  ditty  to  the  tune  of  a  guitar,  —  or,  better, 
singing  and  playing  interludes  between  the  snatches 
of  his  song.  It  was  altogether  such  a  song  as  one 
hears  in  Tangier,  every  line  trailing  off  into  a  softly 
melodious  wail,  —  for  the  common  music  of  the 
Spanish  peasant  possesses  an  indescribably  bar- 
baric quality  that  must  be  of  Moorish  descent. 


222  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

At  last  we  found  Cristo  de  la  Luz  at  the  foot  of  a 
terrifically  steep  hill  which  instantly  dispelled  any 
lurking  doubt  of  the  miracle  to  which  the  little 
church  owes  its  name.  Tradition  says  that  the  re- 
doubtable Cid,  coming  to  Toledo  in  the  train  of  the 
triumphant  Alfonso  VI,  rode  down  this  incline  on 
his  celebrated  horse  Bavieca;  and  that  when  the 
sagacious  animal  came  to  the  church  of  Cristo  de 
la  Luz  she  knelt  devoutly  on  the  pavement  and 
refused  to  move.    Any  ordinary  cavalier  would 
have  berated  his  steed  in  like  circumstances  for  a 
balky  beast,  no  doubt,  —  but  not  so  the  Cid.   He 
knew  the  intelligence  and  above  all  the  religiosity 
of  his  horse  far  too  well  for  that ;  and,  knowing  that 
Bavieca  could  make  no  mistakes,  he  ordered  the 
wall  of  the  shrine  to  be  opened.  There  was  speedily 
revealed  a  sacred  image  of  Jesus  which  had  been 
walled  up  in  its  niche  for  many  years  during  the 
Moorish  domination,  —  but  with  its  candle  miracu- 
lously burning  as  if  it  were  never  neglected !  Hence 
11  El  Cristo  de  la  Luz,"  —  the  Christ  of  the  Light. 
In  view  of  the  steepness  and  slipperiness  of  the  way 
to  the  church  we  did  not  in  the  least  wonder  at  the 
original  genuflection  of  the  horse ;  but  the  miracu- 
lously burning  lamp  one  has  to  take  on  faith,  —  as 
indeed  one  must  take  most  legends  of  the  Cid,  and 
particularly  such  as  relate  to  his  residence  or  pre- 
sence in  Toledo.   Much  that  is  told  of  him  in  that 
city  it  is  impossible  to  get  any  basis  for  in  the  way 
of  recorded  history. 


TOLEDO  223 

The  sanctity  of  this  tiny  church  has  sadly  faded. 
It  is  no  longer  consecrated  ground,  and  the  sacris- 
tan who  admitted  us  through  its  low  door  bade  me 
remain  covered  as  we  inspected  it.  It  was  damp 
and  gloomy,  but  charming  still  as  a  specimen  of 
old  Moorish  architecture ;  and  the  horseshoe  arches 
seemed  like  old  friends  now  that  we  had  been  so  long 
away  from  the  south  with  its  wearisome  repetition 
of  the  Mudejar  style.  Although  this  diminutive 
mosque  had  still  many  evidences  clinging  about 
it  of.  its  later  uses  as  a  Christian  church,  it  was 
quite  unspoiled,  and  many  have  regarded  it  as 
among  the  very  best  examples  of  Moorish  work  in 
Spain.  Its  celebrity,  at  any  rate,  is  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  its  size,  for  it  is  astonishingly  small,  and 
evidently  very  old. 

Behind  it  we  found  a  fascinating  little  garden 
adjoining  the  custodian's  house,  and  through  it  a 
narrow  pathway  led  to  the  steep  stairs  that  give 
access  to  the  top  of  Toledo's  main  gate,  the  Puerta 
del  Sol.  This  we  ascended  and  looked  down  into 
the  winding  highways  that  lead  up  from  the  vega 
so  far  below  on  this,  the  one  gradual  and  approach- 
able side  of  the  city.  The  puerta  was  a  grand  gate 
in  the  Moorish  manner,  a  broad  and  solid  tower  of 
impressive  height,  rather  fresher  and  more  rejuve- 
nated in  appearance  than  had  been  the  case  with 
the  Alhambra  walls,  and  doubtless  constantly  re- 
touched and  restored.  From  its  top  the  view  was 
less  ruggedly  impressive  than  from  the  bluffs  over- 


224  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

hanging  the  river,  but  the  lower  course  of  the  Tagus 
could  still  be  seen,  winding  in  a  placid  ribbon  through 
a  more  peaceful  country,  now  that  it  had  freed 
itself  from  the  bonds  of  those  granite  ledges  and 
cavernous  glens. 

The  rain  still  threatened  without  actually  falling, 
and  we  hastened  back  through  the  devious  streets 
of  the  city  to  find  an  inn.  One  appeared  soon 
enough,  boasting  the  haughty  name  of  Castilla; 
and  the  corps  of  waiters,  hastily  donning  the  full 
evening  dress  of  their  trade  at  seeing  our  invasion 
of  their  domain,  informed  us  of  the  hour  of  luncheon 
and  its  price.  The  latter  was  sufficiently  high  to 
have  commanded,  in  Spain  at  least,  a  meal  fit  to 
dazzle  Lucullus  in  his  most  fastidious  mood.  And 
as  a  result  we  shook  the  dust  of  the  place  hurriedly 
from  our  feet,  just  as  that  omnipresent  and  persist- 
ent boy  from  the  cathedral  happened  to  come  carol- 
ing along,  with  all  the  unconscious  appropriateness 
of  a  male  Pippa !  He  it  was  who  led  us  off  through 
another  tangle  of  streets  to  a  resort  of  less  preten- 
sion, yet  of  excellent  repute,  where  for  a  modest 
stipend  one  might  command  meat  and  wine  and 
good  cheer,  —  I  think  it  was  at  this  point  that  we 
first  began  to  value  that  boy  at  his  true  worth.  His 
name,  he  told  us,  was  Pepe,  —  anglice  Joe. 

Needless  to  say,  Joe  was  waiting  for  us  when  we 
emerged,  and  we  found  it  wholly  impossible  to  get 
rid  of  him  again.  He  was  a  bright  lad,  gaining  an 
education  at  the  cathedral  school,  and  already  pos- 


PUERTA  DEL  SOL,  TOLEDO 


TOLEDO  225 

sessed  the  rudiments  of  one  or  two  languages  beside 
his  own.  He  was  fitting  himself,  of  course,  to  be  a 
more  useful  citizen  of  Toledo,  —  a  city  where,  if 
you  do  not  make  "  white  arms"  (Toledo  blades)  or 
inlaid  jewelry,  or  sell  comestibles,  you  are  either  a 
guide  or  a  beggar. 

Even  with  our  long  delay  over  the  luncheon  table 
it  was  still  too  early  to  be  shown  the  cathedral,  and 
we  lingered  for  some  time  in  the  shady  cloisters,  — 
which  at  any  rate  would  have  been  shady  and  alto- 
gether delightful  in  a  damp  and  gloomy  way  if  the 
day  had  been  bright,  and  which  even  on  this  dubious 
afternoon  possessed  a  certain  charm.  It  was  not 
the  efflorescence  of  the  Gothic  arches  so  much  as  the 
greenery  and  the  trees  that  grew  in  the  shadow  of 
the  mighty  church,  —  a  perfect  dell  of  cypresses 
and  shrubs,  a  fountain  playing  as  a  matter  of 
course  in  its  midst,  and  vines  and  flowers  clamber- 
ing over  the  mossy  dampness  of  the  stones. 

At  last  the  clock  far  overhead  clanked  an  un- 
melodious  half-past  two,  and  in  common  with  a 
clattering  herd  of  visitors  from  all  nations,  we 
started  on  what  turned  out  to  be  an  all  but  inter- 
minable investigation  of  the  points  of  interest  in  the 
church,  beginning  with  the  magnificent  choir  stalls 
and  continuing  through  a  bewildering  succession  of 
chapels,  sacristies,  vestuarios,  treasuries,  and  chap- 
ter-halls. Of  these,  I  regret  to  say,  we  soon  tired. 
The  cathedral  seemed  much  more  rewarding  in  the 
mass  than  in  matters  of  such  infinite  detail.  There 


226  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

was  more  joy  in  one  view  of  its  grand  nave  and 
aisles  than  over  the  nine  ty-and -nine  minor  elabora- 
tions that  adorned  it.    The  famous  chapels,  each 
presenting  claims  of  its  own  to  interest,  the  oval 
chapter-hall   with   its   portraits   of  all   the   arch- 
bishops from  the  earliest  to  the  very  last,  the  gor- 
geous treasury  filled  with  silver  and  gilt,  the  vestry 
with  its  splendid  robes,  and  the  long,  cool  hallways 
lined  with  ancient  paintings,  could  not  after  all 
compare  with  the  stupendous  whole  for  attractive- 
ness and  charm.    Even  those  chapels  which  the 
writers  of  guidebooks  had  seen  fit  to  dignify  with 
stars  and  double-stars  failed  to  make  any  such  ap- 
peal as  the  mighty  body  of  the  church  with  its  lofty 
airiness  and  its  magnificent  windows,  richly  dight. 
It  was  to  our  lasting  regret  that  the  sun  remained 
persistently  veiled  and  did  not  vouchsafe  us  a 
thorough  illumination  of  the  incomparable   rose- 
windows,  which  sight  is  said  to  be  easily  the  finest 
in  all  this  great  church. 

Two  of  the  chapels,  at  least,  deserve  more  than 
a  passing  glance,  because  of  the  legendary  or  his- 
torical interest  attaching  to  them.  The  one  held 
sacred  to  St.  Ildefonso  recalls  the  miracle  before 
referred  to,  whereby  Toledo  won  her  enduring 
primacy  in  the  church  in  Spain.  It  is  related  that 
Bishop  Ildefonso  served  the  episcopal  see  of  Toledo 
and  was  an  extremely  devout  and  godly  man,  zeal- 
ous beyond  'most  others  to  do  something  definite 
for  the  Godhead;  wherefore  he  penned  an  able 


TOLEDO  227 

treatise  on  the  Blessed  Mary's  perpetual  virgin- 
ity. His  reward  was  most  unexampled,  —  for  the 
Blessed  Virgin  herself  came  to  Toledo  to  see  him 
and  to  hear  him  celebrate  the  mass !  She  was,  ap- 
parently, as  much  pleased  with  the  zealous  prelate 
as  she  had  been  with  his  valiant  literary  labors 
in  her  behalf,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  the  mass 
presented  him  with  a  fine  new  chasuble,  made  from 
the  "cloth  of  heaven"  —  which,  alas,  is  a  stuff  so 
fine  as  to  be  invisible !  The  bishop's  chair,  in  which 
she  sat  during  the  mass,  was  never  again  permitted 
to  be  used,  as  a  matter  of  course;  and  the  stone 
on  which  her  feet  alighted  when  she  descended  to 
earth  is  preserved  by  the  church  as  one  of  its  most 
priceless  relics.  It  has  been  kissed  by  untold  gen- 
erations of  reverent  Toledans,  and  countless  others 
from  abroad.  It  is  further  related  that  the  Virgin 
was  no  stranger  in  the  city,  having  come  thither 
many  times  before  with  such  saints  as  Peter,  Paul, 
and,  of  course,  lago.  But  this  sudden  and  much 
later  apparition  to  a  mere  mortal  priest  was  a  sig- 
nal honor,  insuring  his  canonization  and  furnishing 
a  favorite  subject  for  the  remainder  of  ail  recorded 
time  to  the  religious  painters  of  Spain.  Murillo, 
of  course,  portrayed  the  scene,  and  his  picture  of  it 
hangs  in  Madrid.  As  for  the  chasuble  which  the 
Virgin  bestowed  on  Ildefonso  because  she  saw  that 
his  own  was  getting  badly  worn,  they  preserved  it 
for  many  centuries  in  a  chest  in  Asturias.  "  If  they 
open  the  chest  for  you,"  remarks  the  skeptical  John 


228  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

Hay,  "you  will  not  see  the  robe,  which  was  always 
invisible,  —  but  that  only  proves  the  miracle!" 

The  Virgin  also  bestowed  her  divine  approval  on 
the  sacred  image  of  herself  at  the  high  altar,  "pro- 
nouncing it  a  wonderful  likeness."  But  the  greater 
celebrity,  nevertheless,  persistently  attaches  to 
quite  another  statue,  —  one  of  those  black  dolls  so 
common  in  Spain  and  universally  attributed  wher- 
ever they  occur  to  the  workmanship  of  St.  Luke. 
It  is  alleged  to  have  the  power  of  working  miracles, 
and,  like  the  much  more  famous  Madonna  of  the 
Pillar  at  Saragossa,  is  always  gorgeously  arrayed, 
the  priests  changing  its  clothes  on  every  high  feast 

—  but  with  piously  averted  eye,  lest  they  behold 
vanity ! 

The  other  chapel  does  not  make  such  heavy 
draughts  on  one's  credulity,  being  well  authenti- 
cated as  to  its  claims  to  celebrity  by  recorded  his- 
tory. It  is  still  known  as  the  "Mozarabic"  chapel, 

—  that  is  to  say,  the  chapel  of  the  Mozarabes,  or 
half-Arabs,  who  were  permitted  to  practice  their 
curious  Christian  liturgy  during  the  Moorish  occu- 
pation, and  for  long  years  thereafter  when  Toledo 
was  once  again  under  the  dominion  of  the  more 
intolerant  kings  of  Castile.   That  the  chapel  was 
used  for  such  worship  is  undoubted,  and  even  to- 
day there  is  said  still  to  be  a  survival  of  the  Moz- 
arabic  rite.  But  the  chapel  at  Toledo  cannot  let  you 
escape  without  presenting  its  claims  to  a  miracle, this 
time  touching  the  events  which  led  to  the  survival 


TOLEDO  229 

of  the  mixed  religion.  When  the  Visigothic  inhab- 
itants of  Toledo  were  vanquished  by  the  Moors, 
says  the  story,  they  naturally  made  the  best  terms 
they  could ;  and  many  of  them  remained  in  Toledo, 
content  with  the  new  order  of  things,  and  accepting 
the  speech  and  customs  of  their  conquerors,  but 
reserving  certain  rights  as  to  the  form  of  their  wor- 
ship. And  all  through  the  Moorish  period  of  the 
city's  history  they  kept  alive  the  faith  of  their  fa- 
thers, albeit  in  a  somewhat  modified  form,  —  thanks 
to  the  tolerance  of  the  Moslems  which  contrasts  so 
glaringly  with  the  bigotry  and  cruelty  of  the  Chris- 
tians who  succeeded  them  in  power. 

When  finally  the  Moors  were  expelled  and  Al- 
fonso VI  came  in,  the  Mozarabes  demanded  the 
right  to  continue  worship  after  their  custom,  which, 
as  it  happened,  differed  in  thirteen  points  from  the 
established  liturgy  of  Rome.  This  was  denied  them 
at  first,  but  the  people  insisted  with  such  vehemence 
that  it  was  finally  decreed  the  issue  should  abide 
the  arbitrament  of  single  combat.  The  Catholic 
faction  presented  a  doughty  man-at-arms  as  their 
champion  and  the  Mozarabes  another,  —  the  Moz- 
arabic  knight  winning  the  day!  This  unexpected 
result  was  not  pleasing  to  the  Castilian  monarch, 
who  speedily  found  means  to  avoid  it,  discovering 
conveniently  that  the  trial  at  arms  was  "  barbarous 
and  against  the  will  of  God."  So  a  fresh  appeal 
was  made,  —  this  time  direct  to  Providence,  —  by 
placing  the  rival  breviaries  on  a  common  pyre  and 


23o  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

watching  to  see  which  of  the  two  would  successfully 
defy  the  flames.  But  when  the  fire  was  lighted  the 
Mozarabic  book  stubbornly  refused  to  burn,  —  and 
a  gust  of  wind  took  the  Roman  breviary  off  the 
blazing  pile  and  deposited  it  at  a  safe  distance. 
Neither  having  burned,  this  plainly  indicated  the 
desire  of  the  Almighty  that  each  liturgy  should  con- 
tinue; and  thus  the  Mozarabes  got  their  chapel, 
which  is  to  this  day  a  distinct  portion  of  the  cathe- 
dral in  Toledo  as  it  is  at  Salamanca. 

After  enduring  for  a  season  the  endless  succession 
of  cold  and  cheerless  side-chapels  and  anterooms, 
we  succeeded  at  last  in  getting  away  from  the 
throng,  much  to  the  disgust  of  the  sacristans,  who 
had  looked  upon  our  growing  impatience  as  some- 
thing barbaric,  —  which  very  probably  it  was ;  and, 
having  thus  escaped,  we  made  our  way,  thoroughly 
benumbed,  to  the  warmer  air  of  the  streets.  Few 
people  were  abroad  at  the  moment,  but  from  a 
near-by  shop  came  the  tap-tapping  which  betokened 
a  manufactory  of  Toledo  ware,  —  steel  or  gun-metal 
articles  adorned  with  incredibly  elaborate  tracery 
inlaid  with  fine  gold  wire.  At  a  long  and  narrow 
bench  we  found  a  corps  of  young  boys  patiently 
hammering  away,  ornamenting  a  great  variety  of 
articles,  such  as  brooches,  match-boxes,  cigarette- 
cases,  buckles,  knives,  and  daggers.  The  workshop 
was  a  fascinating  one,  but  extremely  difficult  to  get 
out  of,  once  we  were  in,  —  a  peculiarity  which  I 
have  observed  always  attends  any  emporium  in- 


TOLEDO  231 

vitingly  marked  "  Entree  libre."  Doubtless  the 
place  to  buy  Toledo  ware  is  in  Toledo ;  but  it  is  so 
for  sentimental  reasons  only,  for  I  could  not  dis- 
cover that  prices  there  were  a  whit  more  advan- 
tageous than  they  were  in  Madrid  or  Barcelona. 

Wandering  southward  through  the  tortuous  ways 
of  the  city,  we  sought  the  banks  of  the  Tagus  once 
more,  passing  on  the  way  innumerable  fascinating 
doorways,  richly  carved  and  evidently  very  old. 
But  it  is  commonly  true  of  Toledo,  as  of  so  many 
other  old  Spanish  cities,  that  the  houses  are  forbid- 
ding to  outward  view,  —  and  apart  from  these  ad- 
mirable portals  we  found  them  as  a  rule  severely 
plain  and  gloomy,  with  patios  far  inside  for  which 
they  reserved  all  their  artistry.  These,  however, 
instead  of  standing  in  full  view  of  the  passing  mul- 
titude, as  at  Cordova,  were  generally  shut  tight 
behind  massive  doors,  —  wooden,  with  great  bronze 
bosses,  blackened  with  age  and  well  suited  to  their 
carved  posts  and  lintels. 

When  finally  we  emerged  in  the  broad  but  bare 
Paseo  del  Transito,  which  is  a  sort  of  open  prome- 
nade or  park  near  the  river,  a  troop  of  mercenary 
children  who  were  romping  there  ceased  their  game 
and  fastened  upon  us  like  leeches,  demanding  perritas 
in  shrill  and  insistent  voices.  Even  while  we  were 
marveling  at  the  Moorish  arches  and  carved  ceilings 
of  the  neighboring  Synagogue  of  the  Transito,  their 
strident  voices  came  drifting  through  the  half-open 
door,  and  one  or  two  more  venturesome  than  the 


232  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

rest  penetrated  with  extended  palms  to  the  very 
heart  of  the  shrine,  only  to  be  shooed  out  again  by 
the  habitually  indignant  young  woman  who  guards 
the  place.  With  equal  pertinacity  they  pursued 
us  up  the  street  to  the  little  church  of  Santa  Maria 
Blanca,  —  but  this  one  fortunately  possessed  an 
outer  court  and  a  door  which  would  lock,  and  the 
keepers  resolutely  barred  them  out.  This  artifice 
could  not,  however,  subdue  the  din  of  their  shouts, 
nor  prevent  their  hammering  incessantly  on  the 
outer  walls.  It  sadly  marred  our  pleasure  in  these 
two  churches,  which  are  both  very  old  and  afford 
quaint  instances  of  the  survival  of  Mudejar  archi- 
tecture, —  that  is,  a  mixture  of  the  Moorish  and 
Christian  styles.  Despite  the  ravages  of  time,  the 
scaffoldings  of  the  restorer,  and  the  alterations 
made  in  the  past  between  Jew  and  Gentile,  the  syn- 
agogue and  the  Santa  Maria  Blanca  are  charming 
still,  —  and  especially  the  little  fore-court  of  the 
latter,  with  its  mossy  marbles,  its  old  fonts,  its 
sombre  trees,  and  its  paths  lined  with  masses  of 
white  iris.  We  found  it  a  peaceful  spot,  despite  the 
noise  of  the  black-eyed  banditti  who  stormed  the 
wall,  thundered  at  the  wooden  gate,  and  redoubled 
their  wails  for  largess.  There  was  apparently  no- 
thing to  do  but  to  face  them,  so  once  again  we 
steeled  our  hearts  and  plunged  into  their  midst. 

We  had  a  tempestuous  passage  of  it  to  the  ancient 
church  of  San  Juan  de  los  Reyes.  All  known  reme- 
dies were  tried  in  vain.  tl  Where  is  thy  house, 


TOLEDO  233 

chico  ?"  failed  dismally  to  work  its  usual  amaze- 
ment, —  and  at  last  in  sheer  despair  we  threw  our 
caution  to  the  winds  and  openly  threatened  violence 
if  the  begging  party  were  not  instantly  disbanded. 
A  portion  fled  in  fear,  but  a  remnant  still  remained 
and  followed  us  around  to  the  door  of  the  church, 
well  realizing  that  a  penny  must  reward  the  sum- 
mons of  the  custodian. 

San  Juan  de  los  Reyes  stands  on  the  steep  bluff 
above  the  Tagus,  a  rather  plain  but  still  a  dignified 
pile,  far  more  interesting  without  than  within,  and 
bearing  little  outward  evidence  of  its  kingly  design. 
Although  it  was  originally  planned  as  a  votive 
church  in  gratitude  for  a  victory  against  the  Portu- 
guese, Isabella  the  Catholic  is  said  to  have  intended 
it  for  a  present  to  her  valiant  consort  Ferdinand  on 
his  return  from  subsequent  wars,  and  a  cheerful 
gift  it  was  to  be,  —  nothing  less  than  a  mausoleum 
to  be  buried  in !  When  a  Spanish  monarch  of  that 
distant  age  wished  to  be  especially  kind  and  thought- 
ful it  seems  to  have  been  felt  that  the  best  manifes- 
tation of  that  sentiment  was  to  make  some  one  a 
present  of  a  tomb ;  and  most  of  them  took  a  morbid 
pleasure  also  in  building  tombs  for  themselves,  as 
we  saw  later  at  the  Escorial,  —  even  lying  down  in 
them  on  occasion  to  see  how  it  was  going  to  feel ! 
Such  was  the  wifely  purpose  of  Isabella  when  she 
began  this  church  as  a  pleasant  surprise  to  Ferdi- 
nand, —  but  fate  willed  otherwise,  and  the  Reyes 
Catolicos  were  finally  buried,  as  we  have  seen,  in 


234  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

the  cathedral  of  Granada.  St.  John  of  the  Kings, 
thus  cheated  of  its  promised  celebrity,  lagged  for 
centuries  in  getting  finished. 

We  found  its  chief  portal  beset  by  two  cruelly 
maimed  and  unsightly  beggars,  the  first  of  the  sort 
we  had  been  unfortunate  enough  to  see  in  Spain. 
We  could  not  be  rid  of  them  save  by  giving  them  of 
our  store  of  coppers,  and  gladly  took  this  means  of 
banishing  them  from  sight;  and  we  were  greatly 
relieved  to  be  ushered  into  the  interior  of  the  church. 
It  was  a  small  affair,  —  one  long,  narrow  room,  very 
lofty  and  devoid  of  the  intruding  choir,  for  the  latter 
was  raised  on  a  balcony  at  the  farther  end.  Some 
overwrought  medallions  disfigured  the  chancel. 
Altogether  it  seemed  a  highly  uninteresting  parish 
church,  much  marred  by  a  scaffolding  that  was 
being  used  by  workmen  engaged  on  the  roof  so  that 
its  fine  vaulting  could  not  be  seen,  not  to  be  com- 
pared for  attraction  with  its  own  brown  exterior, 
the  high  walls  of  which  were  hung  with  ancient  iron 
fetters,  recalling  the  long  captivity  of  the  Chris- 
tians under  Moorish  domination. 

Better  than  all,  however,  were  the  Gothic  clois- 
ters behind  the  church,  which,  while  somewhat 
painfully  trim  and  perfect  in  their  recent  careful 
restoration,  were  very  nearly  the  finest  we  found 
in  Spain.  The  tracery  of  the  foliated  arches  was 
remarkably  delicate  and  satisfying,  and  the  clois- 
ter had  happily  been  spared  that  final  depth  of 
Spanish  desecration,  —  the  filling  of  the  colonnades 


TOLEDO  235 

with  window  glass.  Instead  it  was  all  open  to  the 
day  and  inclosed  the  usual  garden,  a  green  paradise 
contrasting  agreeably  with  the  gray  gracefulness  of 
the  stone.  The  sun  granted  us  a  brief  moment  of 
his  brightness  to  add  to  the  charm  of  the  scene, 
and  for  the  time  everything  was  warm  and  fragrant 
and  delightful.  Not  every  Spanish  cloister  fares  so 
well.  For  in  this  austere  arid  chilly  climate  the 
Church  has  often  felt  herself  compelled  not  only  to 
use  the  glazed  windows  in  her  cloister  arches,  but, 
what  is  vastly  worse,  to  close  them  entirely  with 
brick  until  often  the  original  arcade  is  but  a  faint 
reminiscence,  barely  discernible  in  an  ugly  wall. 
One  must  not,  therefore,  ignore  the  cloisters  of  San 
Juan,  for  they  far  surpass  those  of  the  cathedral,  - 
a  place  of  tawdry  frescoes,  and  dampness,  and 
sunken  aisles. 

Down  the  steep  hill  from  the  main  portals  of  San 
Juan  there  is  an  abrupt  path  leading  across  an  un- 
kempt open  lot  to  the  river  and  the  imposing  bridge 
of  San  Martin,  —  a  finer  bridge  by  far  than  that  by 
which  we  had  earlier  crossed  and  entered  the  city, 
and  I  believe  one  of  the  very  finest  bridges  to  be  seen 
anywhere.  To  cross  the  Tagus  here  requires  five 
immense  arches,  and  the  great  central  one  is  a  full 
hundred  feet  in  height.  Of  course  it  is  extremely 
narrow  in  proportion  to  its  altitude,  which  adds  to 
its  grace ;  and,  as  always,  it  is  defended  at  either  end 
by  massive  towers.  Tradition  has  been  busy  with 
this  giant  structure,  and  insists  that  when  the 


236  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

builder  of  it  had  nearly  finished  his  work  he  dis- 
covered to  his  dismay  that  there  had  been  some 
error  in  his  calculations,  —  and  that  the  whole  mas- 
sive fabric  was  absolutely  certain  to  fall  when  the 
sustaining  scaffolds  should  be  removed!  He  con- 
fided this  melancholy  discovery  to  his  wife,  —  a 
pearl  among  engineers'  wives,  it  would  appear ;  for 
she  promptly  stole  out  in  the  dead  of  night  and  set 
fire  to  the  framework  and  centrings  of  the  unfin- 
ished arches,  ruining  the  work  as  far  as  it  had  gone 
and  enabling  her  husband  to  begin  anew.  His  next 
effort  was  so  successful  that  the  bridge  is  still  stand- 
ing. As  for  the  wife,  her  part  in  the  matter  was 
subsequently  confessed;  but  the  authorities,  in- 
stead of  rebuking  her  or  censuring  the  husband  for 
his  mistake,  gave  her  great  honor ;  and  every  one  of 
course  lived  happily  ever  after. 

Go  down,  by  all  means,  to  this  stupendous  Puente 
de  San  Martin,  as  we  did,  and  cross  to  the  opposite 
bank.  For  thus  does  one  obtain  what  is  probably 
the  finest  view  of  Toledo,  —  even  finer  than  the 
view  of  it  from  across  the  Alcantara.  If  there  is 
still  time,  you  may  walk  back  to  the  other  bridge 
by  the  hill  paths  along  the  river  bluff ;  but  be  not 
deceived  into  thinking  that  this  is  as  simple  a  mat- 
ter as  it  looks,  for  there  are  many  ravines  and  gullies 
and  cross  paths  which  may  easily  cause  delay  and 
some  wandering,  and  the  distance  is  further  than 
one  is  likely  to  realize.  For  ourselves,  we  voted  the 
time  too  short  to  make  any  dangerous  experiments, 


TOLEDO  237 

—  the  declining  sun  and  the  clocks  of  Toledo  an- 
nouncing that  we  had  a  bare  forty  minutes  to  get 
to  the  railway,  —  and  we  hastened  our  steps  back 
over  the  great  bridge,  past  San  Juan,  down  into 
the  mazes  of  streets  and  finally  across  the  Zoco- 
dover.  Rain,  after  threatening  to  fall  all  day,  began 
to  descend  in  a  fine  mist,  making  the  pavements 
slippery  and  treacherous.    All  the  world  turned 
again  toward  the  station,  save  only  the  goatherds 
who  began  to  move  down  from  the  opposite  hills 
with  their  flocks  to  congest  the  narrow  roadway  of 
the  Alcantara. 

Looking  back  upon  it  now,  I  incline  to  think  that 
the  common  practice  of  making  Toledo  a  day's  ex- 
cursion from  Madrid  is  little  short  of  shameful.  One 
is  too  hurried  to  be  comfortable,  and  it  is  question- 
able if  even  an  agile  and  alert  traveler  can  derive 
the  proper  amount  of  benefit  from  so  cursory  a 
glance.  To  be  sure,  the  city  is  no  longer  great,  but 
it  can  at  least  be  said  that  she  is  hopefully  resisting 
the  decay  that  forty  years  ago  threatened  her  ruin. 
Her  ancient  limits  are  now  a  world  too  wide  for 
her  shrunk  population,  no  doubt,  and  poverty  cries 
aloud  in  her  streets  despite  the  undimmed  popu- 
larity of  her  blades  and  knives.  Her  lofty  alcazar 

—  said  once  to  have  harbored  the  Cid  —  is  now  a 
military  post,  and  the  Hospital  of  the  Holy  Cross  is, 
as  we  saw,  a  military  academy.  A  tablet  still  com- 
memorates the  residence  of  Cervantes  in  a  little 
house  near  the  Zocodover,  where  it  is  said  much  of 


238  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

his  writing  was  done ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  forgotten 
that  Lope  de  Vega  wrote  many  of  his  more  elaborate 
works  in  Toledo.  But  of  present-day  celebrity  there 
is  none,  save  such  as  may  flow  from  the  titular 
honor  of  being  the  chief  ecclesiastical  city  of  the 
kingdom  and  from  the  possession  of  the  cathedral, 
—  these  elements,  curiously  enough,  serving  now  to 
keep  alive  a  city  that  the  haughty  archbishops  have 
done  so  much  to  destroy.  For  it  was  clerical  arro- 
gance that  really  ruined  Toledo,  and  the  high-handed 
rule  of  militant  churchmen  like  Cardinal  Ximenes 
is  irreconcilable  with  'the  ideas  of  haughty  and 
jealous  secular  monarchs.  Even  the  fanatical 
Philip  II,  bigoted  Catholic  that  he  was,  could  not 
brook  the  increasing  dominance  of  the  Toledo  car- 
dinals, and  it  was  this  which  probably  induced  him 
to  remove  his  court  to  Madrid  and  declare  his  capi- 
tal to  be  henceforward  in  that  city.  From  that  day 
the  importance  of  Toledo  waned,  though  not  the 
celebrity  of  her  past.  And  as  a  result  she  typifies,  as 
no  other  single  city  does,  the  benumbing  influence 
of  excessive  priestcraft  on  Spain. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   ESCORIAL 

FATE  decreed  that  Philip  II  should  come  to 
power  at  the  moment  when  Spain  was  enjoy- 
ing her  full  flood  of  fortune.  Her  empire  was  the 
broadest  that  the  sun  shone  upon.  Her  colonies 
were  the  richest  in  any  European  monarch's  posses- 
sion. Her  navy  was  the  proudest  in  the  world.  Her 
zeal  for  the  Roman  Church  was  unbounded  and 
fanatical.  The  tendency  toward  grandiose  ideas 
had  not  been  reduced,  to  say  the  least,  by  the  im- 
perial connection  of  Charles  V,  despite  the  final 
abdication  of  that  potentate  and  his  humble  re- 
tirement to  a  monastery. 

All  these  elements  entered  naturally  into  the 
character  of  Philip,  and  the  religious  fanaticism  not 
least  of  all.  He  speedily  became  the  glass  of  aus- 
terity and  the  mould  of  gloom;  and  as  the  years 
wore  on  these  qualities  appear  to  have  increased, 
crystallizing  in  his  most  imposing  monument,  —  a 
building  thoroughly  impressed  with  these  dominant 
peculiarities.  Of  course  it  was  a  mausoleum,  for 
even  in  Isabella's  day  the  building  of  tombs  was  a 
favorite  pastime  of  Spanish  royalty ;  but  if  any  at- 
tempt were  ever  made  to  give  it  a  royal  name,  it 


240  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

has  dismally  failed,  and  to-day  men  still  call  it  El 
Escorial,  from  the  heaps  of  cinders  and  slag  (scoria) 
left  by  ancient  iron-miners  on  the  site  selected  by 
the  king  for  the  burial  of  his  own  royal  ashes. 

Despite  the  fact  that  many  had  come  away  from 
the  Escorial  expressing  their  disappointment  in  it, 
architecturally  and  otherwise,  we  found  ourselves 
drawn  irresistibly  thither  by  the  magic  of  its  morbid 
spell.  And  it  was  on  a  bright  morning,  quite  out  of 
harmony  with  Philip's  character,  that  we  wended 
our  way  down  to  the  Estacion  del  Norte  in  quest  of 
the  morning  train.  It  was  our  first  acquaintance 
with  the  great  northern  terminal,  but  in  the  next 
few  days  we  became  excessively  familiar  with  it. 
Lying  in  the  deep  ravine  immediately  behind  the 
palace  gardens  and  not  far  from  the  Manzanares, 
it  is  a  less  ornate  station  than  the  Atocha,  but  nev- 
ertheless is  a  fine  and  commodious  building,  whence 
radiate  the  lines  of  steel  that  serve  the  north  of 
Spain  and  lead  direct  to  Paris. 

We  found  the  railway  journey  to  the  Escorial  not 
to  be  particularly  interesting.  It  took  us  out  into 
the  narrow  vale  of  the  inconsequent  river,  up  the 
lower  slopes  of  a  barren  steppe  beyond,  through 
numerous  starveling  outposts  of  Madrid,  whose 
pretentious  villas  commonly  bore  signs  announcing 
that  they  were  for  sale  at  fabulous  bargains,  and 
at  last,  by  dint  of  steady  climbing,  ascended  into 
the  foothills  of  the  Guadarramas,  whose  rugged 
and  snow-clad  summits  had  drawn  steadily  nearer 


THE  ESCORIAL  241 

until  now  they  hung  directly  above  our  heads.  The 
mountains,  indeed,  had  been  the  one  feature  of  in- 
terest as  we  rode  along,  for  the  plain  itself  was  as 
uninviting  as  we  had  found  it  on  the  rainy  road  to 
Toledo.  To-day,  however,  was  bright  and  fair,  and 
the  air  was  cool  and  crisp.  The  traveling  public 
leaned  forth  as  one  man  from  its  compartment 
windows,  and  snuffed  the  fine  freshness  of  the  up- 
land morning. 

At  Villalba,  an  unattractive  hill  town  about 
twenty-four  miles  from  Madrid,  the  railway  di- 
vided, one  line  climbing  directly  into  the  mountain 
passes  that  lead  to  Segovia  while  the  other  pro- 
ceeded more  leisurely  along  an  undulating  highland 
to  the  Escorial,  postponing  its  ascent  of  the  moun- 
tain barrier  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  finally  disap- 
pearing around  a  shoulder  of  the  mountain  wall  in 
the  direction  of  Avila.  To  any  person  bent  on  seeing 
all  these  points,  —  and  none  should  be  omitted,  - 
it  is  easily  possible  to  combine  all  three  in  one's 
northward  journey  without  a  tedious  reduplication 
of  railway  rides ;  and  in  order  that  others  need  not 
discover  this  fact  too  late,  as  we  did,  by  costly  and 
tiresome  experience,  let  me  drop  a  passing  hint  as 
to  how  it  may  best  be  done.  Postpone  the  entire 
trip  until  you  have  wearied  of  Madrid  and  are  per- 
fectly ready  to  leave  that  city  for  good ;  and  then 
take  the  "rapide"  for  Segovia,  where  one  may 
spend  a  night  or  two  very  comfortably  in  a  decent, 
though  primitive,  hotel.  Then  —  if  you  don't 


242  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

mind  rising  at  gray  dawn  —  return  as  far  as  Villalba 
on  the  early  morning  train,  which  makes  a  good 
connection  for  the  Escorial.  There  is  abundant 
comfort  there  for  another  night  at  the  Fonda  Mi- 
randa. On  the  next  morning,  —  for  a  day  will 
probably  suffice  nearly  any  one  for  seeing  the  Esco- 
rial, —  one  may,  without  too  early  rising,  journey 
comfortably  over  to  Avila  in  time  for  luncheon. 

The  monastery  of  the  Escorial  —  for  it  still 
seems  as  much  a  monastery  as  a  palace  —  is  visi- 
ble from  afar,  but  curiously  enough  is  best  seen  thus 
from  the  Segovia  line.  The  road  that  actually  takes 
you  to  it  runs  through  so  many  intervales  and  up- 
land pastures  that  the  great  gray  structure  is  long 
concealed  from  view  by  intervening  hillocks  and 
does  not  burst  upon  the  sight  until  the  train  has 
nearly  reached  the  station.  Even  from  a  distance 
it  is  all  that  its  most  severe  critics  have  claimed  for 
it,  a  gigantic  granite  building  that  resembles  nothing 
so  much  as  a  huge  national  penitentiary.  It  stands 
half-way  up  a  long  slope,  above  an  ascending  park 
of  waving  trees.  Behind  it  towers  a  ridge  of  naked 
hills  composed  of  the  same  cheerless  rock  as  that 
from  which  the  Escorial  is  built.  A  few  straggling 
buildings,  including  a  factory  of  some  sort,  surround 
the  station,  forming  the  lower  village.  Higher  up 
on  the  hillside,  and  clustering  around  the  great  bulk 
of  the  palace,  is  a  more  considerable  hamlet,  more 
prosperous  in  appearance,  which  is  Escorial  de 
Arriba,  —  the  upper  town. 


THE  ESCORIAL  243 

Now  the  maps  which  embellish  the  guidebooks 
are  misleading.  One  might  say,  as  we  did,  after  glanc- 
ing at  them  that  the  distance  to  the  upper  village 
and  the  palace  was  inconsiderable,  and  that  to  reach 
it  meant  no  more  than  a  leisurely  walk  through  the 
woods.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  means  a  rather  ardu- 
ous walk  of  a  steep  and  dusty  mile.  As  for  the  park, 
it  is  inexorably  barred;  and  while  there  are  trees 
lining  the  highroad,  they  are  not  full  grown,  and 
afford  but  meagre  shade.  It  follows  that  none  but 
a  vigorous  pedestrian  can  well  afford  to  ignore  the 
claims  of  the  numerous  omnibuses  that  offer  their 
services  so  clamorously  at  the  salida,  or  exit,  of  the 
station.  We  ourselves  did  ignore  them,  but  almost 
nobody  else  followed  suit;  and  as  a  result  we 
dragged  tediously  up  the  hillside,  passed  now  and 
then  by  clattering  teams  of  tough  and  scrawny 
mules  at  full  gallop,  which  enveloped  us  in  a  dense 
cloud  of  dust.  The  warmth  of  the  forenoon  sun 
made  itself  felt,  and  the  gray  bulk  of  the  Escorial 
almost  seemed  to  recede.  When  at  last  we  reached 
it,  the  shade  cast  by  its  mighty  sides  along  the 
broad  and  level  esplanade  was  grateful  in  the  ex- 
treme. 

Some  thoughtful  person  had  recommended  the 
Fonda  Miranda,  and  this  had  put  us  on  our  guard 
against  the  loitering  army  of  hotel  touts  at  the 
station  and  around  the  upper  gates.  But  one  lame 
man,  representing  some  other  inn,  persisted  in  fol- 
lowing us  despite  all  attempts  to  discourage  him, 


244  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

and  it  proved  rather  fortunate  that  he  did  so. 
Otherwise  we  might  easily  have  missed  altogether 
the  death-chamber  of  the  kings,  which  is  by  all  odds 
the  most  interesting  and  impressive  sight  at  the 
Escorial.  For  be  it  known  that  they  have  a  repre- 
hensible habit  there  of  opening  certain  portions  of 
the  establishment  only  at  certain  hours,  and  what 
is  still  more  confusing,  the  time-table  is  subject  to 
change  and  corrections  without  notice.  Wherefore 
the  first  thing  to  be  done  on  reaching  the  spot  is 
to  find  out  what  arrangement  is  in  effect  at  the 
moment.  Our  self-appointed  guide  knew  that  it 
was  almost  the  hour  for  closing  the  mausoleum, 
although  the  morning  train  had  but  just  come  in ; 
and  he  hurried  us  through  the  vast  and  awesome 
courts  of  the  building,  into  the  lofty  church  in  its 
midst,  and  down  a  dark  and  echoing  corridor  to  a 
huge  door,  before  which  many  people  were  gathered. 
Repeated  thunderings  at  that  stern  portal  brought 
no  response  until  the  preceding  party  had  seen 
everything  to  its  satisfaction.  Then  came  a  priest 
to  let  them  out  and  let  us  in. 

We  mustered  some  thirty  strong  as  we  clattered 
in  a  noisy  file  down  the  obscure  marble  flight  that 
led  to  the  rotunda  below,  where  lies  buried  all  that 
was  greatest  in  Spain.  The  stairs  were  slippery, 
their  treads  worn  to  a  polished  smoothness  by  the 
constant  passing  of  curious,  but  reverent,  feet,  and 
a  considerable  degree  of  caution  was  necessary  to 
avoid  accident  in  descending. 


THE  ESCORT AL.tf-  245 

The  first  impression  of  the  royal  tombs  turned 
out  to  be  far  less  gloomy  and  depressing  than  the 
immensity  of  the  grim  monastery  above.  The 
general  tone  of  the  burial  vault  was  anything  but 
sombre,  relieved  as  it  was  by  highly  polished  mar- 
bles and  much  gilding;  and  yet  it  was  a  place  of 
overwhelming  solemnity,  despite  its  wide  departure 
from  the  original  plans  of  the  austere  Philip.  There 
was  too  much  royal  dust  assembled  here  to  permit 
the  apartment's  suffering  from  earthly  tawdriness, 
and  the  decoration  of  these  huge  marble  coffins  did 
not  jar  harshly  on  one.  High  overhead  in  the  top- 
most niche  reposed  the  sarcophagus  of  Charles  V, 
King  of  Spain  and  Emperor  of  Holy  Rome.  Di- 
rectly beneath  him,  in  their  proper  order,  came  the 
successive  monarchs,  each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever 
laid,  —  Philip  IPs  immediately  under  Charles's. 
Philip  V,  however,  and  Ferdinand  VI  were  miss- 
ing, —  buried  elsewhere,  But  apart  from  these  the 
great  marble  room  contained  the  bodies  of  all  the 
later  kings  and  their  consorts,  with  niches  yet  to 
spare  for  those  who  are  to  come  hereafter.  Each 
sarcophagus  was  like  every  other  one,  —  black 
marble,  highly  polished,  and  lettered  in  gold  with 
the  name  of  its  occupant.  On  these  polished  sur- 
faces the  light  of  flaring  tapers  and  candles  danced 
in  myriad  reflections,  giving  an  effect  that  certainly 
was  not  lugubrious,  but  was  far  removed  from 
gayety. 

At  least  one  of  the  Philips,  according  to  tradition, 


246  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

used  to  chasten  his  soul,  and  possibly  even  amuse 
himself  in  his  morbid  way,  by  coming  to  this  cham- 
ber of  the  mighty  dead  and  clambering  to  his 
destined  niche,  where  he  would  lie  at  full  length, 
listening  to  mass  celebrated  at  the  adjacent  altar, 
doubtless  meditating  after  the  manner  of  St. 
Praxed's  bishop,  how  it  would  feel  to  lie  here  for 
centuries,  seeing  "God  made  and  eaten  all  day 
long."  It  is  hardly  likely  that  the  present  debonair 
young  Alfonso  cares  to  pleasure  himself  in  this 
nerve-racking  way,  although  his  niche  is  already 
designated.  It  cannot  be  an  edifying  thing  to  view 
in  too  minute  detail  the  ground  where  one  shall 
shortly  lie ! 

Opposite  this  imposing  array  of  kings  repose  the 
remains  of  the  queens,  one  of  the  sarcophagi  said 
to  be  scratched  with  the  name  of  its  present  occu- 
pant, by  herself  during  her  lifetime,  —  womanlike, 
with  a  pair  of  scissors ! 

After  a  brief  sojourn  in  the  midst  of  so  much  roy- 
alty one  is  inclined  to  rate  somewhat  more  highly 
than  before  the  courage  of  Philip  IV,  —  the  king  so 
prone  to  spend  his  time  lying  in  his  niche,  —  for  it 
was  surely  a  pastime  calculated  to  unstring  any  but 
the  stoutest  nerves.  Whether  Philip  II,  who  started 
the  building,  would  have  indulged  in  the  same  curi- 
ous experiment  is  not  stated,  but  one  could  imagine 
his  doing  so  readily  enough.  He  was  certainly  given 
to  a  sufficiency  of  uncanny  practices  as  an  outcome 
of  his  religious  mania.  But  with  all  his  zeal  he  had 


THE  ESCORIAL  247 

not  the  hardihood  to  relinquish  his  kingdom  entirely 
and  take  up  the  monkish  life,  as  his  father  Charles 
had  done;  and  instead  devised  this  expedient  of 
making  his  palace  practically  a  monastery,  living 
there  in  true  monkish  simplicity,  but  retaining  the 
sceptre  in  a  firm  grasp.  He  could  forego  the  pomps 
and  vanities  of  this  world,  but  not  its  power ;  and 
his  life  in  the  bare  suite  of  rooms  adjoining  the 
great  church  above  was  probably  as  little  comfort- 
able as  it  would  have  been  at  Yuste.  The  high  altar 
of  the  church  became  the  lodestone  from  which  the 
monarch  was  never  willing  to  depart,  and  these 
tombs  of  the  kings  are  so  disposed  directly  beneath 
it  that  they  must  always  be  under  the  feet  of  the 
priest  at  the  elevation  of  the  Host.  While  yet  he 
lived  a  parlous  and  painful  existence  in  the  rooms 
of  the  Escorial,  Philip  constantly  heard  mass  and 
other  offices  from  his  own  chamber,  a  door  of  which 
opened  directly  into  the  sanctuary ;  and  as  his  days 
drew  to  an  end  he  became  much  disturbed  in  mind 
lest  he  had  not  burned  and  tortured  heretics  enough 
to  save  his  own  soul  alive.  His  last  expiring  breath, 
however,  is  said  to  have  been  expended  in  order- 
ing more  gilt  nails  for  his  coffin,  —  for  he  was  not 
minded  to  spend  eternity  in  a  mean  condition, 
whatever  the  penances  of  his  last  hours. 

We  found  it  extremely  hard  to  tear  ourselves 
away  from  this  overwhelming  array  of  regal  tombs 
with  their  mysterious  and  awful  fascination.  It  was 
not  the  mere  rows  of  huge  black  sarcophagi,  but 


248  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

the  irresistible  and  morbid  thought  of  what  they 
contained.  How  fared  these  proud  princes  in  their 
sealed  marbles?  Not  badly,  if  one  may  credit  the 
testimony  of  a  not  very  distant  past ;  for  if  the  reve- 
lations made  in  the  single  case  of  the  great  Charles 
are  any  criterion  of  the  status  of  the  rest,  these 
bodies  should  all  be  in  a  state  of  remarkable  pre- 
servation. Charles's  coffin  has  been  opened  twice 
since  his  death,  —  the  last  time  in  1871,  —  and  on 
each  occasion  the  body  was  found  "  quite  uncor- 
rupted  even  to  the  eyeballs  [Charles  was  buried 
open-eyed],  although  the  skin  had  turned  black." 
This  inspection  of  the  royal  dead,  however,  was 
apparently  confined  to  Charles.  The  others  to  no 
such  aureate  earth  were  turned ! 

In  a  long  and  narrow  corridor  from  which  open 
numerous  side  chambers  of  a  far  from  gloomy  as- 
pect repose  the  princes  and  princesses  of  the  realm, 
—  royal  children  who  never  reached  the  throne  or 
their  maturity.  Their  tombs  are  much  more  cheer- 
ful, being  carved  of  white  marble  of  the  purest  and 
most  splendid  kind.  There  is  a  very  long  line  of 
these,  some  occupied  and  some  still  un tenanted,  — 
reserved  for  the  future's  untimely  dead.  Most  of 
these  sarcophagi  are  simple  and  tasteful,  but  a 
few  are  as  overloaded  with  ornament  as  the  pan- 
theon of  the  kings,  and  lack  its  impressive  gloom 
to  relieve  the  garishness.  I  recall  one  of  these  ornate 
tombs  especially,  —  in  the  corner  room,  I  think,  — 
a  vast,  octagonal  structure  of  white,  covered  with 


THE  ESCORIAL  249 

elaborate  carving  until  it  resembles  nothing  so 
much  as  an  immense  confectioner's  cake,  utterly 
unworthy  of  comparison  with  the  chaste  and  simple 
tomb  near  by  where  lies  all  that  is  mortal  of  young 
Baltasar  Carlos,  —  that  radiant  prince  whom  Ve- 
lasquez had  made  us  love. 

Passing  out  of  the  Pantheon  at  last,  much  chilled 
and  on  the  whole  depressed  by  the  presence  of  so 
much  imperial  dust,  we  had  more  leisure  to  examine 
the  vast  church  which  holds  its  station  directly  over- 
head, at  the  very  heart  of  the  Escorial.  It  proved 
to  be  really  fine,  as  Spanish  churches  go,  and  hap- 
pily free  from  the  common  intrusion  of  the  choir 
and  altar  screens.  For  the  high  altar  is  built  in  a 
deep  recess  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  structure,  and 
set  high  on  a  dais  reached  by  an  imposing  flight  of 
many  steps,  almost  as  wide  as  the  church  itself. 
The  effect  is  very  rich  and  satisfactory.  On  either 
side  of  this  recess  are  placed  bronze  groups  of  the 
families  of  Charles  V  and  Philip  II,  the  figures  of 
life  size  and  all  kneeling  in  prayer.  In  the  wall  ad- 
joining are  the  oratories  of  the  kings,  with  sliding 
panels  which  practically  make  them  parts  of  the 
church  at  need ;  and  it  was  from  the  one  at  the 
right  of  the  altar  that  Philip  was  accustomed  to 
watch  the  priests  at  mass.  It  was  here  also  that 
he  sat  when  they  brought  him  the  glorious  news  of 
the  victory  at  Lepanto,  which  he  heard  without 
moving  a  muscle;  and  it  was  here  that  he  heard 
with  equal  stoicism  the  news  that  the  Armada  had 


250  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

been  destroyed.  Such,  at  any  rate,  is  the  tale ;  but 
the  victory  of  Lepanto  (1571)  must  have  found  the 
Escorial  in  a  sad  state  of  incompleteness. 

The  roof  of  the  vast  nave  is  borne  aloft  on  enor- 
mous clustered  pillars.  The  floor  is  paved  with  mar- 
ble, and  the  lighting  is  such  as  to  make  the  church 
dim  without  being  gloomy.  It  was  here  that  we 
came  for  the  first  time  on  the  occasional  custom  of 
introducing  the  choir  as  a  coro  alto,  • —  that  is  to  say, 
a  high  choir,  raised  above  the  nave  by  means  of 
arches  forming  a  spacious  loft.  The  effect  of  this  is 
to  leave  the  nave  free  in  its  whole  extent,  as  to 
length,  but  to  roof  over  one  end  of  it.  This  arrange- 
ment we  subsequently  found  to  be  quite  common 
in  the  more  northern  churches,  and  it  was  generally 
most  gracefully  worked  out.  It  certainly  tends  to 
improve  the  interior  effects,  whatever  its  technical 
drawbacks  in  the  matter  of  isolating  the  priests  from 
the  altar. 

In  form,  the  general  plan  of  the  whole  monastery 
is  that  of  a  gridiron,  the  same  being  the  inevitable 
symbol  of  St.  Lawrence,  to  whose  honor  and  glory 
this  institution  is  sacred.  It  is  claimed  to  have  been 
a  votive  offering,  made  by  Philip  for  the  reparation 
of  an  injury  done  this  saint  in  the  battle  of  San 
Quentin,  when  the  Spanish  artillery  were  forced  to 
destroy  a  small  church  sacred  to  him.1  Philip  per- 

1  Skeptical  writers  have  vehemently  denied  this  story  —  as  they 
have  most  others.  One  is  asked  to  believe  that  the  resemblance  to 
a  gridiron  is  mere  fancy  1 


THE  ESCORIAL  251 

sonally  was  not  to  blame,  of  course.  He  was  not  at 
the  battle  at  all,  being  a  monarch  who  much  pre- 
ferred to  pray  for  the  success  of  his  armies  at  some 
secure  and  distant  point,  and  could  be  depended 
upon  with  fair  certainty  not  to  be  in  the  way  on  the 
eve  of  a  battle.  Nevertheless  he  was  sufficiently 
imbued  with  a  sense  of  responsibility  to  St.  Law- 
rence to  vow  him  a  new  and  more  splendid  building 
to  replace  that  demolished  by  the  royal  cannon,  — 
and  hence  the  Escorial,  with  its  curious  succession 
of  cavernous  courts  barred  across  by  numerous 
lofty  granite  buildings.  One  may  readily  observe 
the  gridiron  effect  by  glancing  at  the  plan  of  it  in 
the  Baedeker.  Philip,  who  had  no  such  handy 
volume,  was  accustomed  to  climb  —  or  more  likely 
be  carried  --  into  the  lofty  mountains  that  rise 
just  behind  the  building  to  a  stone  throne  erected 
there,  whence  he  could  at  ease  look  down  upon  the 
work  of  his  hands  and  see  how  marvelously  like 
it  was  to  the  culinary  implement  on  which  San 
Lorenzo  suffered  a  ghastly  martyrdom. 

To-day  a  portion  of  the  monastery  buildings  is 
devoted  to  a  national  school  of  forestry,  and  we 
found  a  multitude  of  its  youthful  students  congre- 
gated in  the  shade  of  the  grim  walls  playing  at  ball 
and  diabolo,  unawed,  to  all  seeming,  by  the  gloom 
of  the  structure.  One  may  become  accustomed  to 
almost  anything,  and  therefore  I  suppose  one  may 
even  become  habituated  to  daily  association  with 
the  Escorial.  But  to  any  one  casually  passing  a  few 


252  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

hours  there  it  will  probably  seem  about  the  most 
uninspiring  location  which  could  be  found  for  a 
school  of  forestry.  Certainly  it  lacks  any  spark  of 
architectural  vividness,  and  instead  is  thoroughly 
stupid  and  dull.  Its  2673  windows 1  are  all  precisely 
alike  and  boast  no  adornment;  indeed,  ranged  as 
they  are  in  interminable  rows  along  the  gray  and 
gloomy  sides  of  the  building  the  effect  is  that  of 
unmitigated  dreariness,  suggestive  of  an  unen- 
lightened colonial  jail.  As  a  palace  it  will  hardly 
serve  any  longer.  Philip  V,  being  gay  and  French 
by  nature  and  training,  went  over  to  La  Granja  in 
the  Segovia  region  and  made  him  a  much  livelier 
palace  than  this,  which  has  enjoyed  monarchical 
favor  ever  since  his  time  as  the  better  summer 
home.  It  must  be  depressing  to  have  a  residence 
in  such  close  juxtaposition  to  a  grave,  —  and  espe- 
cially to  a  pudridero,  wherein  bodies  of  deceased 
royalty  are  supposed  to  rest  for  five  years  before 
ultimate  burial,  presumably  to  make  sure  they  are 
really  dead ! 

There  is  just  one  note  of  worldly  pomp  about  the 
Escorial,  and  even  that  would  escape  the  notice  of 
one  who  had  not  been  especially  instructed  where  to 
look  for  it.  In  one  of  the  towers  just  under  the  apex 
is  set  a  small  plate  of  glistening  gold.  It  can  easily 

1  Hare  speaks  of  the  windows  of  the  Escorial  as  "  numbering 
11,000,  in  compliment  to  the  virgins  of  St.  Ursula";  but  the  dis- 
crepancy between  this  number  and  that  given  in  Baedeker  seems 
too  alarming  to  permit  the  acceptance  of  Hare's  pretty  legend,  un- 
less all  sorts  of  openings,  inside  and  out,  are  reckoned. 


THE  ESCORIAL  253 

be  seen  from  the  roadway  in  front  of  the  whole  mon- 
astery, as  you  pass  toward  the  gateway  that  opens 
toward  the  western  mountains.  Its  evident  inac- 
cessibility is  probably  all  that  has  prevented  its 
being  stolen  overnight.  The  story  is  that  Philip  set 
it  there  in  a  spirit  of  defiance  as  a  haughty  notice  to 
the  world  that  he  had  not  by  any  means  exhausted 
his  exchequers  in  erecting  this  prodigious  bit  of 
imperial  folly ;  and  thus,  in  the  midst  of  so  colossal 
an  evidence  of  religious  renunciation,  gleamed  forth 
the  vainglorious  side  of  Philip's  character,  —  as 
incongruous  in  the  building  as  it  was  in  the  nature 
of  the  fanatic  king.  Apart  from  this  bright  bit  of 
gold  there  is  no  external  adornment  whatever.  The 
domes  and  towers  diversify  the  skyline,  but  save 
for  that  it  is  all  sheer  monotony.  One  must  remem- 
ber that  it  was  first,  last,  and  all  the  time  a  peni- 
tential offering,  designed  by  a  king  whose  name  was 
the  synonym  for  melancholy  and  whose  desire  was 
to  play  the  hermit. 

So  melancholy  was  it  that  we  were  heartily  glad 
to  escape  from  it  for  a  time  and  seek  cheer  in  the 
fonda,  which  we  were  at  some  pains  to  discover.  It 
lay  in  a  side  street,  hard  by  but  hidden  from  view 
by  an  ugly  neighbor,  —  a  school  of  engineers.  Once 
within  its  hospitable  portals,  however,  and  sur- 
rounded by  bottles  of  Valdepenas  in  a  joyous  row, 
we  forgot  for  the  time  the  chill  of  those  depressing 
corridors,  "  a  hundred  miles  in  length,"  and  the  aw- 
ful solemnity  of  that  mausoleum.  But  this  respite 


254  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

was  but  short-lived.  There  remained  the  palace  of 
the  kings,  the  library,  the  gardens,  and  that  fasci- 
nating park  to  see. 

The  palace  proper,  which,  like  the  tombs  in  the 
pantheon,  has  been  fitted  up  by  later  kings  in  any- 
thing but  the  simplicity  which  Philip  contemplated, 
proved  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  succession  of 
those  dreary  rooms  that  must  be  familiar  to  any 
traveler  who  has  ever  seen  any  royal  abode  in 
Europe.  It  was  a  dismal  array  of  narrow  and  lofty 
chambers  with  paneled  walls,  absurdly  diminutive 
fireplaces,  utterly  impracticable  and  spindle-legged 
chairs,  faded  fauteuils,  embrasured  windows,  worn 
tapestries,  and  general  atmosphere  of  decayed  gen- 
tility. The  tapestries,  however,  relieved  it  of  all 
fear  of  failure,  since  they  were  intensely  interesting. 
For  the  most  part  they  were  made  from  those  de- 
signs by  Goya,  the  quaint  cartoons  we  had  seen 
displayed  at  the  Prado. 

The  apartments  of  Philip  II  himself,  being  suf- 
fered by  some  happy  chance  to  remain  as  he  planned 
and  used  them,  and  not  subjected  to  this  unseemly 
attempt  of  later  kings  to  be  gay  and  lightsome  in 
the  midst  of  austerity,  proved  much  more  interest- 
ing. Here  certainly  was  a  semblance  of  that  exag- 
gerated asceticism  which  the  great  Charles  had 
affected  at  his  abdication ;  for  Philip  desired  nothing 
more  than  a  series  of  "cells"  to  live  in,  devoid  of 
every  pretense  at  adornment.  What  gives  these 
bare  rooms  their  interest  is  the  fact  that  they  remain 


THE  ESCORIAL  255 

as  Philip  knew  them  and  contain  several  very  inti- 
mate relics  of  his  last  few  years,  —  his  great  desk, 
for  example,  some  chairs,  and  the  palanquin  in 
which  the  monarch,  sick  unto  death,  was  borne  over 
the  hills  to  the  Escorial  for  the  last  time.  The  only 
painted  adornment  of  these  rooms  appears  to  be  a 
rude  fresco  of  the  "  seven  deadly  sins"  and  a  Ma- 
donna or  two. 

Philip  died  in  a  tiny  room  adjoining  the  great 
church,  clasping  in  his  hands  the  ancient  crucifix 
that  had  comforted  the  dying  moments  of  Charles 
V,  —  and  bothered  only  by  the  haunting  fear  that 
he  might  not  have  burned  enough  heretics  to  war- 
rant that  smiling  reception  among  the  blest  that 
Titian  had  depicted  on  his  flattering  canvas.  The 
guide  —  for  this  portion  of  the  Escorial  is  only  to 
be  seen  with  guides  —  suddenly  pushed  open  a 
panel  in  the  wall  of  the  apartment,  and  we  looked 
out  unexpectedly  into  the  great  church,  its  high 
altar  close  at  our  elbows,  —  and,  kneeling  in  untir- 
ing adoration  before  it,  Philip  himself  in  bronze! 
It  was  a  dramatic  climax  to  our  wanderings  through 
these  old  and  mouldy  apartments  and  doubtless  it 
must  suit  the  shade  of  Philip  right  well,  if,  as  I 
suspect,  he  haunts  the  Escorial. 

It  was  far  pleasanter  to  wander  down  through  the 
sunlit  courts  and  cloisters  in  search  of  the  sola 
capitular,  where  are  to  be  seen  a  number  of  paint- 
ings of  rare  merit.  Velasquez  is  there,  as  usual,  but 
represented  this  time  by  purely  religious  pictures; 


256  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

and  after  him  in  a  bewildering  array  come  splendid 
examples  of  the  art  of  Tintoretto,  Veronese,  Luca 
Giordano,  Ribera,  Rogier  van  der  Weyden,  Navar- 
rete,  and  the  weird  and  gloomy  Greco,  of  whose 
works  the  Spaniards  never  seem  to  tire,  for  his  ema- 
ciated, long-necked  figures  are  to  be  found  in  force 
in  every  gallery  of  Spain. 

Pleasanter  still,  perhaps,  because  so  different 
from  anything  we  had  yet  seen,  was  the  great  li- 
brary of  printed  books,  a  huge  and  lofty  corridor 
high  up  in  one  of  the  numerous  cross-bars  of  the 
mighty  gridiron,  adjoining  the  immense  courtyard 
of  the  kings.  Of  the  books  themselves  one  can  see 
but  few,  for  they  are  kept  closely  shut  in  a  regiment 
of  cabinets,  and  one  must  take  them,  as  one  takes 
so  much  else  in  Spain,  on  faith.  The  curious  custom 
of  placing  the  volumes  with  their  backs  against  the 
wall,  inscribing  their  titles  on  the  edges  of  their 
leaves,  has  often  been  commented  upon.  For  the 
sight  of  the  visiting  multitude  there  are  numerous 
open  books  displayed  in  glass  cases  down  the  centre 
of  the  room,  —  ancient  volumes,  admirably  pre- 
served, —  the  general  effect  strongly  recalling  the 
similar  apartments  of  the  Vatican  palace. 

Pleasantest  of  all,  however,  was  it  to  escape  en- 
tirely from  the  deep  hollow-squares  of  the  monas- 
tery and  wander  out  into  the  bright  warmth  of  the 
afternoon  along  the  ramp  and  terrace  below  the 
great  gray  bulk  of  the  palace  walls,  unmindful  of 
their  grimness  and  forgetful  of  those  hideous  bat- 


THE   ESCORIAL  257 

talions  of  windows,  but  smelling  the  fragrance  of 
the  box  and  myrtle,  and  gazing  off  across  the  deep 
desert  toward  the  smoky  mazes  on  the  far  horizon 
which,  we  knew,  indicated  Madrid.  It  was  a  curious 
terrace  that  ran  along  beneath  the  cliff-like  exterior 
of  the  Escorial,  —  a  terrace  with  a  cavernous  cellar 
beneath  it,  into  which  deep  grottoes  led  downward 
at  intervals  along  the  way.  But  above,  it  was  all 
bright,  and  green,  and  warm,  —  warm  enough  to 
drive  us  around  the  huge  corner  of  the  palace  be- 
neath Philip's  monastic  windows  to  escape  the  sun, 
and  enjoy  there  the  prim  formality  of  the  fragrant 
hedges  and  the  prospect  over  the  rolling  desert,  - 
at  this  distance  almost  a  thing  of  beauty. 

For  a  few  moments  we  forgot  the  cold  dampness 
of  the  monastery  and  its  numerous  wintry  courts, 
and  the  Escorial  seemed  to  afford  some  few  attrac- 
tions as  an  abode.  Nevertheless,  the  cheerlessness 
of  the  building  has  been  sufficient  to  drive  the  later 
monarchs  to  shun  the  spot,  reserving  their  perma- 
nent occupancy  for  the  time  when  they  should  be 
far  beyond  mortal  cares.  The  Bourbon  Philip  V,  as 
has  been  said,  revolted  from  this  palace  and  retired 
to  the  snowy  heights  above  Segovia,  where  he  built 
him  a  palace  in  faint  imitation  of  Versailles,  —  but 
called  to  this  day  La  Granja  (the  farm),  and  to  this 
day  occupied  by  Spanish  royalty  during  the  hotter 
months.  Charles  IV,  who,  one  must  bear  in  mind, 
comes  long  after  Charles  V  instead  of  just  before, 
had  a  small  residence  built  for  himself  while  yet  a 


258  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

prince,  in  the  dense  groves  that  cover  the  slopes 
below  the  Escorial  on  the  way  to  the  station.  It  is 
still  known  as  the  Casita  del  Principe  (the  prince's 
cot),  as  it  was  when  Charles  was  a  lad,  in  1772. 

Toward  this  retired  and  attractive  spot  we  turned 
our  steps  late  in  the  afternoon,  only  to  meet  stern 
repulse  from  the  grenadier  on  guard  at  the  gate.  He 
pointed  out  that  our  tickets,  which  we  had  pro- 
cured early  in  the  day  from  an  office  somewhere 
within,  and  which  we  had  subsequently  forgotten 
to  consult,  specified  the  time  for  closing  the  gardens 
of  the  casita  as  four  o'clock,  —  and  it  was  now  two 
minutes  past !  In  vain  we  pleaded  for  an  extension 
of  time,  for  a  mere  quarter-hour  that  we  might  at 
least  enjoy  the  coolness  of  the  woods.  In  vain  we 
flattered,  cajoled,  offered  bribes.  To  each  entreaty 
his  answer  was  an  increasingly  decisive  negative,  — 
"  Ahora,  senor,  no  se  puede  entrar ! " 

As  always  when  one  is  arbitrarily  denied  one's 
will,  this  grove  and  its  distant  casita,  whose  roof 
could  just  be  made  out  amid  the  tops  of  distant 
trees,  instantly  became  for  us  the  most  desirable 
and  alluring  spot  in  the  whole  Escorial.  It  had 
promised  to  be  such  a  pleasant  walk  under  those 
shady  trees  to  the  station !  But  we  were  forced  to 
abandon  it,  and  instead  betook  ourselves  to  the 
solace  of  a  cool  bottle  of  Insalus  —  Spain's  chief 
and  altogether  admirable  mineral  water.  After  all, 
this  was  not  so  bad.  We  gave  up  the  casita  and  the 
park,  —  but  we  had  spread  out  before  us  a  splendid 


THE   ESCORIAL  259 

pageant  of  rugged  and  snowy  mountains,  whose 
mighty  shadow  stole  silently  and  slowly  across  the 
face  of  the  desert  below. 

I  cannot  say  that  we  came  away  disappointed  in 
the  Escorial.  Repeated  warnings  had  led  us  to  ex- 
pect no  beauty  there,  and  we  certainly  found  almost 
none.  But  as  a  grand  expression  in  immutable  stone 
of  the  austere  and  fanatical  spirit  of  Old  Spain,  it 
left  nothing  to  be  desired.  The  mighty  ghost  of 
Philip  the  Second  walks  through  its  courts,  chilly 
and  forbidding  as  in  life.  His  cruelty,  meanness, 
bigotry,  fanaticism,  and  pride  stand  revealed  for  all 
time  in  the  dreary  highland  castle  which  is  his  chief 
visible  monument.  If  the  Escorial  is  ugly,  it  at  least 
has  the  merit  of  extreme,  thoroughgoing  ugliness, 
and  of  a  consistency  with  its  aims  and  authorship 
that  amounts  to  a  redeeming  grace.  It  is  simply 
and  straightforwardly  what  it  was  meant  to  be,  — 
the  outward  expression  of  a  stern  monarch's  asceti- 
cism, the  fitting  abode  of  death  and  mighty  ghosts. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SEGOVIA 

IN  the  innocence  of  our  hearts,  for  we  were  even 
yet  far  from  inured  to  Spain  and  equally  far 
from  comprehending  the  devious  customs  of  Span- 
ish railways,  we  went  down  on  a  sunshiny  Saturday 
morning  to  take  the  "rapide"  for  Segovia.  And 
with  that  good  fortune  which  now  and  then  favors 
the  ignorant,  we  discovered  it  to  be  a  day  on  which 
the  authorities  decreed  the  train  should  be  run.  It 
was  further  characteristic  of  our  inexperience  that 
we  had  formed  the  spacious  intention  of  running 
out  to  Segovia  for  the  day  and  returning  that  same 
night — late.  The  time-table  certainly  revealed  this 
course  to  us  as  possible ;  but  how  it  worked  out  in 
practice  will  best  be  left  for  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
Meantime  we  interrogated  the  Senorita  Rosario  as 
to  the  proper  means  of  letting  ourselves  into  the 
house  at  night. 

We  were  living  in  a  modest  pension  on  the  Calle 
Mayor,  boasting  none  of  the  elegance  of  a  hotel, 
but  comfortable  withal,  —  the  kind  of  place  one 
finds  frequented  by  artists  in  any  big  European  city, 
and  a  boon  to  those  who  dislike  both  the  bustle  and 
display,  not  to  say  the  cost  of  large  hostelries.  It 


SEGOVIA  261 

was  four  long  and  weary  flights  above  the  pavement, 
but  pretended  of  course  to  be  on  the  third  floor  by 
that  amiable  fiction  whereby  a  Spaniard  begins 
numbering  his  floors  with  the  second  or  third.  Also 
it  had  the  usual  Spanish  provision  of  a  wicket  with 
a  screen  and  a  flap,  suitable  for  permitting  the  big 
black  eyes  of  the  senorita  to  observe  who  it  was  that 
knocked  before  she  deigned  to  open. 

The  senorita  produced  a  prodigious  key,  and  ex- 
plained the  manner  of  its  use.  The  senor  must 
insert  it  in  the  lock,  —  so,  —  and  turn  it  thrice,  - 
so,  so,  so,  —  each  turn  producing  some  inscrutable 
change  in  the  lock's  inward  parts ;  then,  behold,  the 
door  would  open !  But  the  street  door  below  ?  Ah, 
the  sefior  must  summon  the  sereno  for  that !  For  in 
Spanish  cities  not  even  the  householder  himself  can 
enter  his  own  residence  at  dead  of  night  without  the 
friendly  assistance  of  the  night  watch !  However, 
the  senorita  said  this  presented  no  difficulty.  The 
sereno  would  not  be  far  away  in  any  case,  and  his 
ear  would  be  found  carefully  attuned  to  catch  the 
sound  of  hand-clapping  from  afar.  Should  he  still 
delay  to  come,  we  must  shout,  calling  aloud  upon 
his  name,  —  " Sereno!  Sereno!"  Oh,  certainly  he 
would  have  the  key.  He  has  all  keys  to  all  doors 
along  his  beat.  He  knows  them  all  by  heart !  And 
one  should  give  him  a  few  centimos,  of  course.  Thus, 
provided  with  keys  and  a  box  of  candle-matches  to 
light  our  midnight  way  up  those  dark  and  toilsome 
flights  of  stairs,  we  set  out  joyfully  for  our  day  in 


262  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

the  country,  relieved  of  every  semblance  of  bag- 
gage, and  free  as  the  birds  that  wheeled  between 
the  tall  buildings  of  the  narrow  street. 

It  was  early  morning,  and  Madrid  was  not  yet 
fully  awake.  Men  with  short  lines  of  hose  were 
sprinkling  the  asphalt  of  the  streets,  shifting  their 
jointed  lengths  of  pipe  to  successive  hydrants  in  the 
pavement.  Janitors  were  noisily  raising  the  iron 
shutters  which  had  protected  wayside  shops  over- 
night, and  sleepy  boys  were  sweeping  up  yesterday's 
accumulation  of  dust  and  litter.  A  few  carriages 
jogged  lazily  through  the  deserted  streets.  Thus  it 
was  in  the  city. 

But  when  the ' '  rapide  "  had  pulled  out  of  the  town 
and  began  its  industrious  climb  toward  the  Guadar- 
ramas  over  our  familiar  road,  we  discovered  that  the 
peasantry  had  begun  their  day  much  earlier.  In  the 
fields  they  were  already  resting  from  a  few  hours  of 
toil,  and  isolated  figures  could  be  seen  peacefully 
sleeping  on  the  ground  in  what  little  shade  offered 
itself,  or  else  eating  what,  in  polite  Spanish  society, 
would  be  entirely  too  plentiful  a  meal  to  figure  as 
breakfast.  Ahead  the  jagged  skyline  of  the  moun- 
tain range  shone  startingly  white  against  the  blue. 

It  was  an  excellent  train,  and  well  filled.  The 
passengers  were  mainly  intent  on  going  through  to 
France  by  way  of  I  run,  but  there  was  still  a  con- 
siderable sprinkling  of  Spaniards  journeying  for 
shorter  distances.  Out  in  the  corridors  men  smoked 
their  cigarettes  and  gazed  at  the  splendid  panorama 


SEGOVIA  263 

of  the  mountains.  Tiny  electric  bulbs  glowing  with 
light  presaged  tunnels  ahead.  As  for  speed,  the 
train  did  as  well  as  could  be  expected  of  one  that 
was  climbing  a  lofty  mountain  pass.  We  halted  but 
a  moment  at  the  dreary  Villalba,  and  then  bore  off 
into  the  depths  of  a  stupendous  valley,  always 
gradually  upward,  the  line  visible  for  miles  in  ad- 
vance as  a  straight  gash  in  the  side  of  the  mountain 
range  opposite.  Far  away  across  the  open  moor 
loomed  the  spectral  bulk  of  the  Escorial. 

Late  in  the  forenoon  the  train  attained  the 
heights,  trundled  with  increasing  swiftness  through 
a  succession  of  tunnels,  and  then  began  coasting 
down  the  opposite  side  of  the  divide  toward  Segovia, 
whose  lofty  cathedral  tower  soared  up  out  of  the 
landscape  miles  away,  yet  distinct.  The  snow  was 
not  far  above  us  now;  indeed,  it  seemed  from  our 
car  windows  that  a  scramble  of  fifteen  minutes 
would  have  put  us  in  the  midst  of  those  fields  of 
white.  The  air  was  deliciously  clear  and  bracing. 
Meantime  the  mountain  chain  spread  before  us  a 
new  panorama,  wheeling  around  to  the  north  in  a 
magnificent  circle  of  peaks,  not  as  Alpine  in  their 
whiteness  as  the  Sierras  at  Granada  had  been,  but 
much  more  rugged  and  in  their  way  more  satisfying. 
We  found  Segovia  almost  at  their  feet. 

The  usual  array  of  outworn  omnibuses  was  wait- 
ing at  the  station,  —  narrow,  covered  coaches  into 
which  six  people  could  be  crowded  at  a  pinch.  They 
were  not  inviting  in  any  case,  but  the  distance  to 


264  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

the  city  was  obviously  considerable,  and  despite 
the  high  altitude,  the  day  was  far  from  cold.  We 
chose  for  some  occult  reason  the  coach  marked 
with  the  image  and  superscription  of  the  Fonda  del 
Comercio,  and  set  forth  at  a  gallop  which  speedily 
degenerated  into  a  sort  of  lurching  crawl  over 
execrably  paved  streets.  The  octroi  officers  thrust 
their  heads  into  the  stuffy  carriage  only  long  enough 
to  see  that  we  were  empty-handed,  and  left  us  to  the 
enjoyment  of  the  view. 

I  think  it  consumed  a  good  half-hour,  this  ride 
into  the  heart  of  Segovia.  The  road  itself  was  unin- 
teresting, but  it  could  not  be  said  that  the  distant 
prospect  of  the  city  was  disappointing  in  the  least. 
Even  on  the  way  from  the  station,  which  is  easily 
the  least  picturesque  of  the  roads  to  Segovia,  the 
appearance  of  it  is  splendidly  commanding.  Situ- 
ated on  a  rocky  hill  of  long  and  narrow  shape,  —  a 
hill  that  rises  in  lonely  grandeur  out  of  a  rolling 
country,  —  her  aspect  is  imposing.  Two  rivers, 
after  flowing  past  her  precipitous  sides,  unite  at  her 
westernmost  extremity,  constraining  the  rocky 
height  to  narrower  and  narrower  bounds,  until  at 
last  it  terminates  in  a  razor-like  edge  strongly  sug- 
gesting the  prow  of  a  gigantic  ship  as  it  towers  out 
of  the  poplar  trees.  Her  rambling  houses  fill  the  un- 
even top  of  her  constricted  plateau  in  a  confused 
and  huddled  mass,  and  from  their  outermost  walls 
the  hill  drops  almost  perpendicularly  to  the  deep 
glens  and  ravines  beneath.  Out  of  the  wilderness 


SEGOVIA  265 

of  weather-worn  tiles  rise  a  score  of  towers,  chiefest 
of  which  is,  of  course,  the  lofty  campanile  of  the 
cathedral,  massive  but  graceful,  a  landmark  for 
many  undulating  miles.  All  these  things  we  marked 
with  appreciative  eye,  holding  tightly  the  while  to 
the  sides  of  our  carriage,  which  bounced  over  the 
cobbles,  crawling  up  long  inclines  only  to  dash  madly 
down  sharp  pitches  beyond  in  a  frantic  effort  to 
gather  momentum  for  the  next  ascent. 

The  streets  of  Segovia  were  not  wider  than  those 
of  Toledo  —  and  for  the  same  reason.  They  were 
built  originally  by  Romans,  and  were  modified  by 
Moors.  As  a  result,  our  views  ahead  became  very 
limited  the  moment  the  coach  entered  the  city,  and 
we  came  full  upon  the  famous  aqueduct  before  we 
were  aware,  dashing  down  into  an  open  plaza  across 
the  width  of  which  strode  this  magnificent  Roman 
ruin.  Ruin,  however,  is  hardly  the  word,  for  it  is  in 
practically  perfect  preservation,  and  stretches  in  a 
majestic,  thin,  gray  line  across  the  whole  valley  to 
the  lower  ranges  of  the  mountains.  Naturally  it  is 
visible  from  almost  any  point  on  the  eastern  side  of 
Segovia,  but  it  seems  most  impressive  of  all  when 
you  come  unexpectedly  upon  it  as  we  did  and  look 
up  at  its  double  tiers  of  arches  at  their  very  highest 
point.  Down  the  spacious  highway  to  the  right  you 
may  follow  its  diminishing  perspective  as  it  streams 
off  toward  the  hills.  At  the  left  it  buries  itself  in 
the  citadel  of  Segovia,  which  looms  directly  over 
your  head.  Despite  the  fact  that  these  stones  were 


266  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

laid  without  mortar  and  without  clamps  of  any  sort 
in  the  time  of  the  Emperor  Augustus,  almost  every 
one  of  them  is  still  firmly  in  place.  To-day  a  few 
Christian  images  serve  to  exorcise  the  demons  that 
pious  Segovians  believe  erected  this  work,  —  for 
like  almost  every  such  ruin  this  bears  the  generic 
name  puente  de  diablo,  —  the  devil's  bridge.  Tradi- 
tion insists  that  Satan,  enamoured  of  a  fair  but 
frail  Segovian  maid,  promised  to  build  her  a  bridge 
to  bring  water  to  the  city  in  a  single  night's  time,  — 
if  only  she  would  promise  to  be  his.  She  promised, 
of  course,  never  dreaming  that  the  contract  could 
be  fulfilled,  and  one  may  well  suspect  also  that  she 
was  not  averse  to  the  idea  of  an  aqueduct  which 
should  save  her  the  labor  of  toiling  down  to  the 
banks  of  the  Clamores  with  her  buckets.  At  any 
rate,  the  compact  was  made.  Imagine,  then,  the  rash 
maiden's  horrified  amazement,  at  dawn,  to  see  this 
colossal  structure,  gray  and  ghostly  in  the  morning, 
towering  out  of  the  plain,  —  and  Satan  grinning  be- 
tween the  arches,  his  eyes  glittering  for  her  soul ! 
However,  says  the  legend,  she  escaped.  The  bishop 
of  Segovia  ruled  that  the  fact  that  two  stones  were 
missing  at  the  break  of  dawn  was  a  breach  in  limine 
of  the  terms  of  the  contract,  sufficient  to  vitiate  it 
and  save  the  maid  from  the  consequences  of  her  bar- 
gain, —  a  truly  Spanish  and  priestly  decision,  for  Se- 
govia has  had  the  full  benefit  of  the  aqueduct  from 
that  day  to  this,  and  Satan  has  had  to  build  many 
another  puente  in  other  places  for  just  as  little  pay ! 


SEGOVIA  267 

Splendid  as  this  ancient  structure  is,  I  find  my- 
self doubting  that  it  is  the  greatest  glory  of  Segovia. 
Doubtless  it  is  the  oldest,  and  from  the  archaeolo- 
gist's standpoint  the  most  interesting,  sight  in  this 
ancient  city.  The  common  statement  is  that  it  is 
superior  to  any  other  Roman  monument  now  left  in 
Spain,  and  surely  there  are  few  more  complete  than 
this  even  in  Rome  itself.  Nevertheless,  considered 
purely  as  a  lion  of  the  place,  it  can  hardly  compare 
with  the  magnificent  views  of  the  town  itself,  as  seen 
from  the  river-banks  just  under  its  frowning  preci- 
pices, —  a  fact  which  we  discovered  for  ourselves 
during  the  course  of  an  afternoon  ramble.  But  for 
the  moment  we  were  fully  content  to  marvel  at  the 
devil's  bridge  as  the  omnibus  toiled  up  the  final 
steep  and  speedily  lost  itself  in  the  mazes  of  the 
city  streets,  which  turned  and  twisted  in  true  Moor- 
ish fashion  among  the  time-worn  houses  of  the 
town.  I  suppose  it  was  but  a  trivial  distance  to  the 
fonda,  and  of  course  the  familiarity  of  1  e  native 
made  it  a  perfectly  plain  course  to  steer;  but  the 
manifold  turnings  and  windings  of  the  streets  struck 
us  as  uncommonly  perplexing,  and  we  despaii  d  of 
finding  our  way  back  again  through  that  labyrinth 
on  foot  without  the  aid  of  some  local  Ariadne  and 
her  cord,  until  we  reflected  that  of  course  the  chief 
difficulty  would  be,  as  always,  to  reduce  the  number 
of  youthful  guides  to  anything  under  half  a  dozen. 
Meantime  the  coach  labored  up  to  the  fonda,  — 
an  unassuming  inn  with  a  rather  unprepossessing 


268  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

door,  in  a  street  narrower  than  any  of  the  others  had 
been.  Immediately  a  small  boy,  who  seemed  to  be 
the  only  representative  of  the  proprietor  anywhere 
about,  and  who  was  somewhat  hazy  in  his  own 
mind  as  to  the  exact  hour  of  lunch,  welcomed  us 
into  the  damp  interior  and  placed  before  us  the 
inevitable  police  blanks.  The  latter,  apparently, 
were  duly  scanned  by  the  reporters  of  the  one  local 
newspaper  in  true  American  fashion,  since  a  few 
hours  later  we  had  copies  of  it  laid  before  us  and 
discovered  our  names  spread  forth  with  much  pomp 
and  circumstance  among  the  locals  as  turistas  norte- 
americanos.  Who  shall  say  that  Segovia  is  not  en- 
terprising and  up  to  date,  despite  the  decline  and 
fall  of  her  woolen  mills  ? 

The  newspaper,  by  the  way,  was  far  from  unin- 
teresting, small  as  it  was.  It  announced  itself  as 
procurable  anywhere  in  Segovia  at  one  peseta  per 
month  and  bore  the  simple  and  highly  descriptive 
name,  "  Diario  de  Avisos."  Like  all  European  news- 
papers, it  was  printed  on  poor  paper  with  exces- 
sively black  ink.  Its  first  page  was  mainly  given  up 
to  news,  of  which  we  furnished  our  part  along  with 
an  anarchist  on  trial  for  making  bombs  and  a  few 
paragraphs  of  "  echoes  of  society."  On  the  last  page 
—  it  boasted  but  four — was  a  department  devoted 
to  the  latest  intelligence,  received  by  telephone. 
The  inside  was  largely  made  up  of  poetry  and  ad- 
vertising matter,  the  former  predominating  in  such 
volume  as  to  reveal  a  stupendous  literary  activity 


SEGOVIA  269 

on  the  part  of  the  present  race  of  Segovians.  One 
man  had  indulged  himself  in  a  two-column  ode  on 
the  aqueduct,  ascribing  its  erection  to  Trajan,  and 
recounting  all  the  remarkable  persons  in  history 
who  had  seen  it.  As  for  the  advertisements,  they 
were  chiefly  of  the  national  lottery  and  various 
cinematograph  establishments,  —  for  the  Spaniard 
loves  the  moving  picture  machine  as  dearly  as  does 
his  Italian  cousin.  Also  I  noticed  a  most  eloquent 
advertisement  of  a  gramofbn.  But  aside  from  these 
and  one  or  two  patent  medicine  announcements,  one 
of  which  was  upside  down,  it  was  hard  to  find  any- 
thing savoring  of  business  activity.  If  I  lived  in  Se- 
govia, however,  I  think  I  should  certainly  subscribe 
to  the  "  Diario  de  Avisos/'  even  if  it  had  not  honored 
me  on  my  first  visit  by  printing  my  name,  marvel- 
ously  misspelled ;  for  it  gave  us  a  very  lively  half-hour 
of  Spanish  gossip  over  our  tortillas  and  vino  tinto, 
and  put  us  in  a  proper  frame  of  mind  for  venturing 
into  the  heart  of  the  town  immediately  after  the 
midday  meal. 

There  are,  of  course,  Mohammedan  remnants  to 
be  seen  here  and  there  in  obscure  patios  through- 
out Segovia,  and  the  narrow  crookedness  of  the 
town's  byways  is  in  itself  a  lasting  monument  to 
the  Moorish  domination  of  the  city,  sufficient  to 
stamp  it  as  having  been  a  Moslem  stronghold  even 
though  it  boasts  no  plethora  of  horseshoe  arches  and 
azulejos.  As  at  Toledo,  there  is  one  highly  inter- 
esting relic  of  the  Moorish  days  in  the  name  still 


270  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

clinging  to  the  ancient  market-place  —  the  open 
plaza  which  the  aqueduct  crosses  at  its  most  impres- 
sive height —  called  the  "Azoquejo."  It  requires 
but  a  normal  perception,  surely,  to  see  in  this  word 
merely  another  form  of  "Zocodover"  and  "Soko," 
all  lineal  descendants  from  the  Arabic  sukh.  But 
in  spite  of  these  lingering  vestiges  of  the  swarthy 
invaders,  and  in  spite  of  the  unmistakable  Roman 
sound  in  her  very  name,  Segovia  remains  rather 
more  Castillian  than  otherwise.  It  would  seem  that 
the  hold  of  the  Moors  was  too  short  to  impress  itself 
very  deeply  on  the  architecture  of  the  ancient  city, 
and  their  efforts  to  hold  it  against  the  advancing 
armies  of  Castile  appear  to  have  been  brief  and  rather 
perfunctory,  not  because  the  situation  was  not  ad- 
mirably adapted  to  defense,  but  because  the  out- 
post was  rather  too  far  north  and  too  easily  cut  off 
from  the  main  body  of  the  Moorish  kingdom  in 
Spain.  Rome  is  after  all  far  more  with  us,  late  and 
soon,  than  is  the  Moor  in  Segovia ;  for  if  the  devil's 
bridge  serves  to  recall  the  days  of  the  pagan  empire 
with  the  vividness  of  yesterday,  the  minor  churches 
of  the  Segovia  of  to-day  affect  the  Romanesque 
with  a  fervor  that  amounts  to  a  passion. 

We  set  out  attended  by  the  usual  crowd  of  ur- 
chins, and  although  we  ostentatiously  selected  the 
most  promising  of  the  lot  for  guide-in-chief,  the 
others  persistently  followed  on  and  would  not  be 
denied.  Even  the  guide-in-chief  was  a  stupid  lad, 
quite  different  from  little  Paco  of  Ronda  and  Pepe 


SEGOVIA  271 

of  Toledo,  —  perhaps  because  tourists  have  not  yet 
descended  on  Segovia  in  such  volume  as  in  the 
other  cities.  This  happy  condition  of  affairs,  alas, 
cannot  long  endure.  Segovia  is  bound  to  be  known, 
and  her  incomparable  charms  realized,  —  and  after 
that  the  deluge ! 

The  crowd  of  boys  had  no  suggestion  to  offer  as 
to  whither  we  would  best  turn  our  steps,  and  we 
made  off  at  random  down  a  street  that  seemed  to 
lead  toward  the  aqueduct  in  order  that  we  might 
get  a  comprehensive  view  of  it  from  above.  It  was 
thus  that  we  stumbled  by  accident  upon  the  church 
of  San  Martin,  perhaps  the  most  typical  at  present 
of  the  Romanesque  churches  in  the  city  with  its 
characteristic  Segovian  modification,  —  the  sur- 
rounding loggia,  or  colonnade.  At  San  Martin  it 
runs  around  three  sides  of  the  structure  and  is  ex- 
tremely graceful  and  effective,  —  at  least  on  the 
south  and  west,  where  the  arches  have  not  been 
barbarously  bricked  up  as  they  have  on  the  north 
side.  There  are  several  other  old  churches  in  Se- 
govia exemplifying  this  happy  variation  of  the 
Romanesque,  but  none  more  successful  than  San 
Martin,  for  the  reason  that  the  others  are  either 
sadly  ruined  and  deserted  or  have  suffered  from  the 
Spanish  passion  for  filling  all  cloistered  arches  with 
something  impervious  to  wind  and  weather.  Many 
such  we  found  a  trifle  later,  when  we  had  oriented 
ourselves  and  began  our  systematic  exploration  of 
the  town.  The  boys  proved  such  utter  failures  as 


272  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

guides  that  we  distributed  bribes  among  them  to 
make  them  run  away,  and  relied  solely  on  the  map, 
which  was  small  and  inferior,  and  made  distances 
look  small  that  in  actuality  proved  rather  alarming. 
Nevertheless,  we  found  it  better  than  those  dull- 
witted  urchins  had  been,  and  came  by  easy  stages, 
unattended,  to  the  Plaza  Mayor,  which  lies  almost 
in  the  centre  of  the  city.  It  was  a  most  satisfactory 
old  square,  quite  the  equal  of  the  Zocodover  of 
Toledo,  and  to  my  own  way  of  thinking  the  peer  of 
the  much-lauded  plaza  of  Salamanca,  claimed  to  be 
the  finest  in  Spain.  The  main  square  of  Segovia  is 
not  as  ornate  as  that  of  Salamanca,  to  be  sure,  but 
is  easily  as  picturesque.  As  usual,  we  found  it  to  be 
arcaded  all  around,  and  the  sagging  facades  of  the 
houses  suggested  great  age.  It  was  a  curious  j umble 
of  architecture,  rather  more  satisfactory  on  the 
whole  than  the  similar  instances  of  Toledo,  and  pro- 
ducing almost  a  Dutch  effect  here  and  there.  Of 
course,  the  arcade  sheltered  a  multitude  of  tiny 
shops,  but  of  business  one  saw  little  or  nothing.  On 
market-day  it  is  a  place  of  much  bustle,  and  is 
thronged  with  picturesque  peasants,  but  at  other 
times  is  as  sleepy  as  a  New  England  village  on  a 
summer's  afternoon.  A  rather  incongruous  and  un- 
welcome band-stand  intruded  itself  in  the  midst  of 
the  plaza,  which  was  not  filled  with  greenery,  as 
the  one  at  Salamanca  is,  but  was  bare  and  brown. 
Down  a  side  street  just  at  the  farther  end  rose  the 
splendid  chevet  of  the  cathedral,  and  over  it  all 


SEGOVIA  273 

glowed  the  brown  tower  which  we  had  seen  from  so 
many  miles  away. 

We  sought  the  great  church,  and  entered  it 
through  a  door  in  its  northern  transept,  expecting 
something  gloomy  and  depressing.  But  in  this  we 
were  agreeably  disappointed.  The  interior  was  as 
dignified  and  churchly  as  had  been  the  case  at  Se- 
ville, but  with  the  difference  that  here  everything 
was  light  and  cheerful.  The  interior  was,  as  usual, 
much  more  satisfactory  than  the  outside  of  the 
building  had  been ;  for  Segovia  cathedral,  despite  its 
plain  western  facade,  is  over-elaborated  externally 
as  you  approach  it  from  the  plaza.  And  as  one 
comes  to  this  church  more  often  from  the  east,  and 
sees  only  the  semicircular  apse  and  the  huge  gable 
of  the  transept,  it  seems  to  have  been  thought  wise 
to  lavish  the  greater  effort  at  beautification  here 
and  let  the  real  front  of  the  edifice  go  bare.  But 
within  it  gave  no  evidence  of  wasteful  and  meaning- 
less ornamentation.  It  was  spacious  and  lofty  and 
airy,  the  tawny  yellow  of  the  stone  giving  back  the 
flood  of  afternoon  sunlight  as  it  streamed  in  glorious 
colored  beams  from  the  clerestory  windows  to  fall 
upon  the  silent  organs  and  the  majestic  shafts  of 
the  columns.  Even  the  floor,  inlaid  with  parti- 
colored marbles,  was  an  object  of  decorous  cheer. 

Sombre  priests  gliding  noiselessly  here  and  there 
lent  a  note  of  picturesqueness  to  the  scene.  It  was 
the  hour  of  the  oracibn.  One  by  one  the  brothers 
gathered  from  their  sacristy,  swarthy  men  who 


274  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

glanced  curiously  at  us  as  they  hurried  by  to  their 
stalls,  their  black  and  brown  robes  in  curious  con- 
trast with  the  lightness  of  the  vast  church.  Out  of 
a  dusky  corner  behind  one  of  the  pillars  suddenly 
scurried  one  of  the  smallest  boys  I  have  ever  be- 
held, clothed  all  in  scarlet  like  a  miniature  cardinal, 
his  mischievous  face  lighted  by  a  dancing  pair  of 
the  blackest  Spanish  eyes.  Did  the  sefior  wish  the 
sacristan  ?  Yes?  He  would  fly  in  quest  of  him.  And 
he  did  so,  scampering  off  like  a  tiny  red  spider  over 
a  boulder,  his  floating  red  cape  making  a  brilliant 
dot  in  the  midst  of  all  the  sober  cheerfulness  of  the 
church,  like  that  tiny  dash  of  red  one  looks  for  in 
the  paintings  by  Rousseau. 

The  sacristan,  when  he  came,  was  quite  a  differ- 
ent .sort,  —  a  good  fellow  as  it  turned  out,  but  as 
sombre  as  a  turnkey  with  a  death  warrant.  He  led 
us  out  of  the  church  and  into  the  silent  cloisters, 
whose  beautiful  Gothic  arches  were  somewhat 
marred  by  glazing.  Nobody  else  was  there  save  our- 
selves, and  the  sun  fell  warm  and  bright  in  these 
ancient  courts,  whose  midst,  as  usual,  was  filled 
with  lush  greenery.  That  inescapable  campanile 
soared  loftily  above  our  heads.  Among  the  shrubs 
of  the  court  was  the  customary  well,  garnished  as  to 
its  ancient  curb  with  a  painfully  modern  tin  pail. 
These  cloisters,  it  deserves  to  be  said,  are  much  the 
oldest  portion  of  the  present  cathedral,  they  having 
been  moved  stone  by  stone  from  their  original  place 
next  the  older  cathedral  of  Segovia  and  built  up 


SEGOVIA  275 

anew  under  the  shadow  of  the  later  church.  Under 
a  modest  slab  in  the  cloister  lies  the  body  of  Juan 
Gil,  architect  of  this  cathedral  as  well  as  of  that  at 
Salamanca,  who  died  here  when  the  work  was  in  its 
early  stages.  His  son,  Rodrigo  Gil,  who  was  also 
employed  on  the  work,  was  fortunate  enough  to  live 
to  see  it  substantially  completed  in  1577,  and  died 
beholding  that  it  was  very  good.  He  is  interred  in 
the  cloister  also,  and  the  epitaph  of  these  two  might 
well  be  the  same  as  Sir  Christopher  Wren's. 

I  craved  the  privilege  of  photographing  the  in- 
terior of  the  church  as  well  as  the  cloisters,  but  the 
sacristan  said  it  could  not  be  granted  except  on 
petition  to  the  canons.  It  might,  he  thought,  be 
freely  done  "after  six  o'clock,"  — at  which  time, 
of  course,  the  light  would  be  too  dim;  so  that  he 
might  as  well  have  told  me  to  take  snapshots  at 
midnight!  Nevertheless,  he  added,  as  we  handed 
him  a  trifling  fee,  that  he  proposed  at  present  to 
depart,  and  muttered  something  in  Spanish  to  the 
effect  that  what  one  does  n't  see  never  hurts  one. 
Thus  left  to  our  own  devices,  with  the  priests  safely 
engaged  in  their  oraciones  in  the  depths  of  the 
screened  choir,  we  obtained  a  surreptitious  but  very 
satisfactory  photograph  of  the  south  aisle  with  its 
pillars  and  one  lofty  organ.  But  it  was  no  easy 
matter  to  restrain  those  red-robed  rascals  of  aco- 
lytes, who  possessed  an  insatiable  desire  to  scamper 
into  the  field  of  vision,  and  who  had  to  be  quelled 
with  perritas  and  perro  gordos. 


276  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

Grand  as  the  cathedral  was,  we  bore  in  mind  our 
intended  return  to  Madrid  on  the  evening  express, 
and  tore  ourselves  away  from  it  to  seek  out  some  of 
the  other  quaint  bits  of  architecture  of  which  we 
had  heard.  But  in  much  of  this  we  were  doomed 
to  disappointment.  San  Esteban,  once  a  notable 
church  of  Segovia,  was  a  mass  of  scaffolding,  and  its 
glorious  tower,  which  had  become  a  source  of  dan- 
ger, was  in  process  of  demolition.  We  passed  it  by, 
and  sought  a  steep  declivity  which  promised  to  lead 
us  down  through  the  city  gates  to  the  banks  of  the 
river,  the  murmur  of  whose  waters  came  faintly  up 
to  us  from  the  depth  of  the  vale.  Once  we  found  it, 
a  convenient  bridge  led  across  to  the  farther  bank, 
and  a  narrow  road,  high-walled  and  dusty,  turned 
our  steps  eastward  toward  the  deserted  monastery 
of  El  Parral.  We  went  to  its  gate,  less  to  see  the 
monastery  than  to  get  a  comprehensive  view  of 
lofty  Segovia,  whose  northern  side  was  now  turned 
toward  us,  rising  abruptly  from  the  river's  brim  and 
crowned  with  domes  and  towers.  We  found  El 
Parral  closed  tight,  and  its  exterior  was  all  that 
could  be  seen,  —  a  quaint  and  rather  pleasing 
building,  yellow-brown,  like  the  cathedral,  but 
possessed  of  a  handsome  Romanesque  portal  worth 
more  than  a  passing  glance. 

I  should  most  certainly  advise  visitors  to  Segovia 
not  on  any  account  to  miss  the  circuit  of  the  city 
from  below,  following  the  river  paths  from  El  Par- 
ral around  to  the  south.  This  is  perhaps  the  finest 


SEGOVIA  CATHEDRAL,   FROM  THE  SOUTH 


SEGOVIA  277 

sight  that  the  city  has  to  show,  and  the  magnificence 
of  it  reaches  its  culmination  at  the  western  end  of 
the  lofty  rock,  where  the  twin  rivers  meet  and 
sharpen  the  cliff  to  a  stupendous  point,  —  a  point 
crowned  with  a  castle  such  as  one  dreams  of  in  his 
childhood  days.  The  latter  is  the  alcazar,  now 
prosaically  employed  as  a  repository  of  military 
archives,  painfully  trim  and  new,  like  the  restora- 
tions at  Carcassonne,  but,  nevertheless,  like  them 
abundantly  satisfying  when  touched  by  the  en- 
chantments of  distance. 

We  had  already  seen  that  castle  at  closer  range, 
and  felt  it  to  be  rather  disappointing,  but  that  sen- 
timent disappeared  when  we  saw  it  from  below. 
Down  by  the  rushing  waters  of  the  Clamores  it  lost 
all  its  newness,  and  was  softened  by  the  afternoon 
light  into  a  mediaeval  structure  in  very  truth,  as  if 
it  were  no  younger  than  the  alcdzar  which  of  old 
had  crowned  this  same  summit.  Alfonso  the  Wise 
erected  it  a  century  or  so  before  the  time  of  Colum- 
bus, but  lightning  and  fire  have  ravaged  it  since, 
and  the  only  portions  that  now  remain  from  the 
ancient  building  are  two  turrets  and  the  foundation 
stones.  Within  a  few  years  it  has  been  thoroughly 
repaired  and  renovated  —  and  it  "shows."  The 
common  superstition  insists  that  the  first  calamity 
—  when  a  bolt  of  lightning  struck  it  in  Alfonso  el 
Sabio's  own  day  —  was  a  direct  rebuke  from 
Heaven  because  that  learned  and  bookish  monarch 
was  so  bold  as  to  question  the  wisdom  of  God. 


278  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

Either,  as  one  account  states,  he  was  leaning  to- 
ward the  notion  that  the  earth  revolved  around  the 
sun,  —  a  most  uncatholic  bit  of  heresy,  as  we  all 
know,  —  or,  as  another  states,  he  remarked  that 
"  if  he  had  been  consulted  at  the  creation  he  could 
have  suggested  a  number  of  improvements  in  the 
general  scheme/'  In  any  event,  he  managed  to  in- 
vite the  rebuke  of  Heaven,  and  forthwith  was  hurled 
down  upon  his  palace  the  all-dreaded  thunder  stone. 
The  palace  was  not  destroyed,  however,  but  was 
repaired,  and  became  the  shelter  of  Isabella  of 
Castile,  who  was  proclaimed  queen  here  in  1474, 
and  took  her  oath  before  the  altar  of  the  cathedral 
which  in  those  days  stood  hard  by.  During  the  time 
of  Charles  V  and  Philip  II,  the  alcazar  was  greatly 
amplified  and  adorned ;  but  either  the  wrath  of 
Heaven  was  once  again  kindled  by  more  monarchi- 
cal heresy,  or  some  other  untoward  fate  was  invoked, 
for  fires  later  destroyed  practically  everything  in- 
side it,  and  what  one  sees  there  to-day  is  but  a 
modern  structure  of  admirably  consistent  design. 

As  the  culminating  point  of  Segovia's  rocky 
ridge,  however,  it  leaves  nothing  to  be  desired,  and 
we  strolled  toward  it  from  El  Parral  over  a  sheep 
trail  that  skirted  the  top  of  the  river  bluffs.  The 
view  on  every  side  was  inspiring.  The  whole  north- 
ern flank  of  Segovia  was  in  view,  and  behind  tow- 
ered the  snow  mountains ;  while  before,  the  country 
opened  out  into  a  broad  valley  sloping  easily  to- 
ward the  west.  Now  for  the  first  time  came  the 


SEGOVIA  279 

realization  that  Segovia  is  really  like  a  huge  ship, 
her  sharp  prow  turned  toward  the  setting  sun  and 
her  gray  aqueduct  trailing  like  a  wake  of  foam 
astern.  A  stately  galleon  she  is,  and  most  stately  of 
all  when  seen  from  directly  beneath  her  impending 
prow.  We  hastened  toward  it,  only  to  be  turned 
aside  for  a  moment  to  the  little  round  church  of 
Vera  Cruz,  an  isolated  and  deserted  building  on  a 
knoll  near  the  river.  I  have  called  it  "  round'*  be- 
cause it  gives  the  beholder  that  impression ;  but  in 
strictness  it  is  twelve-sided,  with  three  round  apses, 
—  a  miniature  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
in  Jerusalem.  It  is  said  to  be  a  work  of  the  Cru- 
saders. As  at  El  Parral,  we  could  find  no  custodian 
and  were  forced  to  admire  the  little  building  solely 
from  without.  I  believe  that  there  is  a  custodian, 
however,  or  one  who  claims  to  be  such  and  who  at 
least  goes  through  the  motions  of  trying  to  unlock 
the  door  with  a  key  that  does  not  fit  the  lock ;  but 
we  had  not  even  that  small  satisfaction  when  we 
were  there,  and  had  to  content  ourselves  with  the 
charming  exterior  of  this  outlying  shrine. 

It  was  but  a  step  from  here  to  the  junction  of  the 
rivers,  and  the  razor-edge  of  Segovia's  inland  pro- 
montory was  now  almost  overhead.  Down  in  the 
sands  of  the  stream,  women  with  mustard-colored 
headgear  were  on  their  knees,  washing  and  singing 
at  their  work.  On  the  white  and  dusty  highway 
great  carts  drawn  by  long  tandem  teams  of  mules 
creaked  by,  their  two  enormous  wheels  in  each  case 


280  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

groaning  under  the  weight  of  much  merchandise. 
We  crossed  the  rivers  —  now  happily  united  —  on 
a  splendid  bridge,  and  struck  off  into  a  fascinating 
path  along  the  opposite  bank  through  the  under- 
brush and  shrubs  that  lined  the  stream.  The  birds 
began  their  vespers  in  the  poplar  trees,  and  min- 
gled their  melody  with  the  sound  of  the  waters  and 
the  music  of  the  women. 

Now  we  stood  directly  beneath  the  prow  of  the 
Segovian  "  ship,"  which  it  required  but  a  little 
imagination  to  assume  was  actually  rushing  down 
upon  us  under  full  sail.  Straight  up  from  the  river, 
rising  proudly  from  the  tossing  spray  of  the  budding 
poplars,  towered  this  prodigious  cut-water,  like  the 
ram  of  a  man-of-war ;  and  on  its  top,  at  the  very 
brink  of  the  precipice,  stood  the  majestic  alcazar, 
its  every  crudeness  softened  by  the  purple  shadows 
of  the  evening  and  seemingly  as  old  as  the  rock  it- 
self, the  abode  of  gallant  knights  and  dames  of  high 
degree.  If  only  one  could  always  approach  Segovia 
from  this  point,  and  see  the  loftiness  of  that  cliff 
towering  up  from  afar  in  the  mists  of  the  morning ! 
I  doubt  if  earth  would  have  anything  to  show 
more  fair  than  that  lordly  galleon  of  Spain  gigantic 
against  the  roseate  foreglow  of  the  dawn. 

Our  river  path  led  on  through  trees  and  shrubs, 
well  above  the  torrent  which  intervened  between  us 
and  the  cliffs,  until  at  last  we  had  almost  completed 
the  circuit  of  the  city,  and  came  upon  the  aqueduct 
once  more.  As  we  advanced,  the  alcdzar  diminished 


"THE  PROW  OF  THE   SEGOVIAN   SHIP 


SEGOVIA  281 

in  prominence  and  yielded  place  to  the  cathedral 
with  its  tower ;  and  at  last  the  path  grew  in  size  and 
definiteness  until  it  became  almost  a  street,  with 
squalid  buildings  here  and  there  forming  a  sort  of 
outlying  lower  hamlet.  In  the  midst  of  these  we 
finally  discovered  the  church  of  San  Millan. 

The  impressionable  Hutton  had  experienced 
raptures  over  San  Millan,  pronouncing  it  one  of  the 
most  satisfactory  things  in  Europe  in  its  peculiar 
way,  —  and  doubtless  it  may  have  been  so  once. 
But  to-day  one  must  be  endowed  with  a  faith  that 
would  move  mountains  to  see  it  in  its  pristine 
beauty.  It  is  thoroughly  spoiled,  outwardly,  by  the 
bricking  up  of  its  encircling  arcades,  which  must 
have  been  very  charming,  but  which  to-day  can 
hardly  compare  with  those  left  unspoiled  in  the  city 
above.  I  suspect  that  the  great  charm  may  have 
been  an  internal  one;  but,  as  at  the  other  shrines 
outside  the  walls  of  Segovia,  we  were  wholly  unable 
to  gain  admittance  and  missed  the  curious  effects  of 
light  and  shade  that  seem  to  have  formed  one  of 
the  church's  great  attractions.  Externally  it  cer- 
tainly does  not  seem  remarkable  to-day,  and  they 
who  admire  San  Millan  must  do  it  largely  through 
the  eye  of  faith. 

Three  thousand  feet  of  altitude  with  snow 
mountains  for  neighbors  naturally  make  the  even- 
ings in  Segovia  chill  indeed.  The  cold  came  on 
even  as  the  afterglow  faded  from  the  fields  of  ice 
on  the  summits,  and  dinner  at  the  Fonda  del  Comer- 


282  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

cio  proved  but  a  comfortless  meal.  A  stupid  boy 
played  at  building  a  fire  in  the  tiny  stove  that 
graced  the  centre  of  the  great  dining-room,  but  he 
was  all  the  evening  at  it,  thrusting  unwieldy  sticks 
down  into  the  incipient  flame  in  such  wise  as  to 
discourage  even  a  well-meaning  fire.-  As  a  result 
we  were  fully  reconciled  to  board  the  omnibus, 
which  was  stuffy  as  usual,  but  warmed  by  the  close 
contact  of  its  occupants,  to  set  out  for  the  evening 
train.  Ah,  if  we  had  but  planned  to  spend  one  more 
day!  If  we  could  only  have  but  a  single  sunrise 
among  those  glorious  mountains.  And  La  Granja, 
—  if  only  we  might  drive  out  to  that  palace  in  the 
sky ! 1  But  alas,  it  was  not  so  to  be,  —  or  at  any 
rate  we  thought  so.  And  down  through  the  de- 
serted streets  we  rattled,  the  gloomy  houses  giving 
back  the  rumble  of  our  wheels,  a  single  Spaniard 
in  the  far  corner  revealing  his  presence  only  by 
his  sharp  knees  and  the  intermittent  glow  of  his 
cigarette. 

It  was  pitchy  black  now,  and  the  aqueduct  was 
more  ghostly  than  ever  as  we  clattered  under  its 

1  On  a  subsequent  visit  to  Segovia,  I  took  the  drive  to  La 
Granja  and  convinced  myself  that  it  really  is  one  of  the  stupidest 
of  all  stupid  royal  playthings  in  Europe.  At  least  the  palace  is  so, 
and  the  gardens  behind,  while  extensive,  are  to  my  mind  hopelessly 
overrated.  The  fountains,  which  cost  Philip  V  "  three  millions  and 
amused  him  three  minutes,"  will  interest  everybody  else  just  about 
the  same  length  of  time  at  slightly  less  expense,  although  the  ride 
is  expensive.  Much,  however,  depends  on  the  weather.  If  the 
mountains  had  not  been  cloud-capped,  I  suspect  it  would  have 
looked  finer  to  us. 


SEGOVIA  283 

resounding  arches.  Out  into  the  dim  avenue  that 
lay  toward  the  station  we  plodded,  its  imposing 
rows  of  plane  trees  half  guessed  in  the  gloom. 
Meantime  misgivings  began  to  assail  us.  Suppose 
the  "  rapide  "  should  be  full  ?  Somebody  at  the  hotel 
had  suggested  that  possibility,  and  we  had  laughed 
it  to  scorn,  with  a  confidence  we  now  felt  oozing 
away  from  us. 

In  the  cold,  bare  station,  swept  by  the  night 
wind  and  dimly  lighted  by  flaring  jets  of  gas,  we 
found  a  shivering  array  of  people  in  a  long  line  be- 
fore the  ticket  office,  mostly  natives  wrapped  close 
in  their  great  capes,  the  folds  well  over  their  mouths 
and  the  ends  jauntily  flung  back  over  their  shoul- 
ders to  display  the  inevitable  band  of  colored  velvet. 
My  two  companions  hovered  near  the  platform 
door  and  shivered  with  mingled  cold  and  anxiety. 
Meantime  a  whisper  ran  down  the  line,  —  an  om- 
inous whisper  in  various  languages :  "  No  hay  asien- 
tos ! "  "II  n'y  a  pas  dejpjaces !  "  The  agent  had 
heard  from  the""tra*in  —  and  ft  was  full ! 

"What's  the  matter?"  came  in  two  anxious 
voices  from  the  platform  door. 

"  There  are  no  seats  to  be  had." 

"  No  seats!  Are  you  positive?  Have  you  asked 
the  heff y  ? ' '  (This  last  frivolous  title  being  the  fam- 
ily method  of  referring  to  thejefe  de  estacibn.) 

But  thejefe  confirmed  the  report  in  Spanish  that 
was  but  too  easy  to  comprehend.  There  was  no  get- 
ting back  to  Madrid.  He  was  desolated,  of  course, 


284  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

as  any  well-regulated  European  official  must  be 
under  such  circumstances,  but  the  seiior  must  not 
be  permitted  to  board  the  train  without  having 
reserved  seats.  Senoras  ?  Ah,  that  was  also  too  bad ; 
—  but  the  rule  was  inexorable.  However,  he  would 
ask  the  conductor  of  the  train  when  it  arrived. 

Just  then  with  a  roar  it  came  in.  Now  Segovia 
has  a  queer  station,  so  arranged  that  all  trains  from 
whatever  line  come  into  it  from  the  same  direction, 
changing  ends  with  the  engine  when  they  depart. 
"  Here  's  the  train,"  came  in  chorus  from  the  plat- 
form door.  "  It  is  not  the  train,'*  I  rejoined  with 
that  crisp,  incisive  inflection  common  to  those  wise 
in  their  own  conceit.  "  It  came  from  the  wrong  di- 
rection. It  is  from  Madrid."  But  it  was  the  train, 
for  all  that,  and  the  conductor  was  all  shrugs  and 
sorrow.  There  were  no  seats  at  all,  and  we  might 
not  be  allowed  to  stand.  Wonder  of  wonders,  we 
could  not  even  bribe  the  man !  So  back  we  went 
to  the  hotel  in  that  crawling  omnibus,  over  those 
stony  streets  now  more  deserted  than  ever.  The 
proprietor  was  waiting  for  us,  smiling  and  appar- 
ently no  whit  surprised  to  see  us.  He  was  used  to 
this  sort  of  thing  and  probably  had  expected  it  from 
the  first,  but  had  been  too  polite  to  say  anything 
about  it. 

So  we  had  our  night  in  Segovia,  after  all.  But  we 
had  made  not  one  shred  of  preparation  for  spending 
a  night  away  from  home  and  had  no  luggage  of  any 
sort,  —  not  even  a  brush,  —  and  the  night  was  cold. 


SEGOVIA  285 

However,  an  obliging  maid  introduced  us  for  the 
first  time  to  caloriferos,  —  fat,  carpet-covered  re- 
ceptacles filled  with  hot  water  and  almost  large 
enough  to  have  served  as  heaters  in  a  passenger 
car ;  and  in  such  garb  as  seemed  best  we  went  to 
bed  with  these  and  slept  soundly,  —  as  soundly  as 
we  could  in  view  of  the  visits  of  the  local  sereno. 
For  if  we  had  missed  the  experience  of  summoning 
that  functionary  to  admit  us  to  the  Pensione  Car- 
men Carmona,  we  had  at  least  the  benefit  of  his 
Segovian  fellow,  passing  under  our  lofty  windows 
at  half-hour  intervals,  chanting  the  time  and  telling 
of  the  weather  in  those  words  which  have  given  him 
his  name,  —  "  'T  is  midnight  —  and  serene." 


CHAPTER  XII 

AVILA 

THE  road  to  Avila  lies  over  the  mountains  and 
through  forests  of  pine.  Beyond  the  Escorial 
the  railway  climbs  steadily,  and  for  long  distances 
without  passing  any  station.  Finally  it  reaches  the 
top  of  the  divide  and  plunges,  or  rather  glides  by 
long  and  sweeping  curves,  to  the  plain,  —  a  bare, 
deserted  country  not  unlike  that  which  surrounds 
Madrid.  The  crossing  of  the  mountain  range,  how- 
ever, gives  a  delightful  interlude  between  these 
broad  tracts  of  treelessness,  and  all  the  way  from 
the  Escorial  to  the  summit  and  beyond,  our  train 
toiled  slowly  through  great  groves  of  resinous  trees, 
their  trunks  gashed  with  the  axe  and  provided  with 
taps,  from  which  the  native  juices  of  the  wood  oozed 
slowly  into  rude  receptacles  much  as  one  sees  it  done 
on  the  pine-clad  slopes  of  ^Lgina.  The  Spaniards, 
however,  do  not  use  the  resin  for  their  wine  as  do  the 
Greeks. 

Inasmuch  as  the  way  over  the  desert  had  become 
excessively  familiar  to  us,  we  beguiled  the  time  by 
reading  the  accounts  of  the  life  of  Santa  Teresa, 
toward  whose  birthplace  and  long-time  residence 
we  were  bound.  For  it  is  to  this  good  saint  that  Avila 


AVILA  287 

owes  her  lasting  fame,  although  even  without  this 
she  would  possess  a  commanding  charm  in  her  mag- 
nificent cincture  of  walls  and  towers,  her  cathedral, 
and  various  surviving  vestiges  of  a  picturesque 
antiquity.  As  a  consequence,  most  of  the  books  that 
we  had  brought  with  us  told  much  of  Teresa  and 
very  little  of  the  city  itself,  —  a  failing  which  I  hope 
I  am  about  to  avoid.  Nevertheless,  one  may  not 
ignore  Santa  Teresa,  who  proved  herself  a  most  un- 
usual personage  even  in  her  earliest  youth. 

Born  of  an  eminently  respectable  parentage,  she 
came  early  under  the  spell  of  that  fanaticism  that 
dominated  Spain ;  and  her  career  serves  to  furnish 
a  remarkable  illustration  of  achievement  along  a 
most  unusual  line.  For  Teresa's  aim  in  life  from 
her  very  youngest  years  was  to  become  a  saint,  — 
a  laudable  ideal,  but  one  that  to  most  children 
apparently  seems  so  hopeless  of  attainment  as  to 
warrant  dismissing  the  thought  at  once.  Possibly 
if  every  child  were  to  set  out  with  the  deliberate 
purpose  of  being  canonized,  the  world  would  be  a 
lugubrious  place  indeed.  Teresa,  moreover,  was 
not  alone  in  this  remarkable  wish.  Her  small  bro- 
ther shared  the  desire  with  her,  —  but  unfortu- 
nately did  not  attain  the  same  degree  of  success.  The 
sister,  however,  not  only  obtained  the  high  churchly 
distinction  she  prayed  and  worked  so  hard  to  secure, 
but  became  a  saint  of  national  reputation,  second 
in  celebrity  to  Santiago  himself,  thanks  to  a  royal 
decree  of  Philip  III. 


288  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

In  her  infancy  Teresa  was  obsessed  by  the  reli- 
gious spirit  to  a  degree  that  to-day  would  be  set 
down  at  once  as  mania  and  would  cause  parents 
very  serious  concern.  She  was  by  no  means  a  nor- 
mal child,  even  in  Spain,  where  normal  children  often 
seem  so  hopelessly  abnormal.  She  spent  hours  in 
meditation.  Hand  in  hand  with  her  brother  she 
would  wander  through  the  ancestral  gardens,  the 
two  looking  into  each  other's  eyes  and  solemnly 
repeating  the  word  "  Forever,"  —  thus  revealing 
the  deep  impression  which  the  awful  thought  of 
eternity  had  made  upon  their  childish  minds.  The 
girl  was  not  ten  years  old  when  it  occurred  to  her 
to  seek  martyrdom  among  the  Moors;  and  she 
wandered  out  of  the  city  with  her  tiny  brother, 
entertaining  the  deliberate  intention  that  both 
should  be  slain  for  their  faith  and  thus  attain  at 
once  the  martyr's  crown  and  the  security  of  eternal 
blessedness ! 

This  expeditious  road  to  glory  was  denied  them, 
for  kindly  hands  led  the  children  back  before  they 
had  traveled  far.  Possibly  they  had  not  wandered 
many  steps  beyond  the  gate  which  is  standing  yet 
and  which  to-day  bears  Teresa's  name,  —  for  we 
all  know  how  most  children  "run  away."  But  the 
exploit  was  no  passing  childish  whim,  at  any  rate 
on  the  part  of  Teresa.  Closely  guarded  from  throw- 
ing herself  on  the  spears  of  Islam,  she  now  deter- 
mined to  become  a  hermit,  and  her  father,  at  last 
thoroughly  alarmed,  was  kept  busy  destroying 


AVILA  2^9 

hermitages  that  she  and  little  Rodrigo,  her  brother, 
kept  erecting  in  the  orchard.  It  was  at  about  this 
time,  however,  that  Teresa's  mother  died  and  she 
came  into  possession  of  the  family  library,  which 
was  rich  in  romances.  It  was  this  naturally  enough 
which  produced  a  reaction  to  the  opposite  extreme. 
The  girl  read  inordinately,  and  her  religious  en- 
thusiasm was  for  the  time  eclipsed.  She  grew 
worldly-minded,  especially  being  anxious  for  the 
body,  what  she  should  put  on.  Her  regard  for  per- 
sonal adornment  finally  became  so  great  that  her 
father  rashly  placed  her  in  a  convent  near  by. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  old  sentiment  began 
to  revive.  Teresa  still  loved  the  world ;  but  her  sense 
of  duty  toward  God,  which  had  lain  dormant  for  a 
season,  sprang  up  afresh.  Duty  triumphed,  as  of 
course  it  should ;  and  at  the  age  of  twenty  Teresa 
took  the  veil,  —  this  time  against  the  wish  of  her 
father,  who  began  to  regret  that  he  had  not  left  her 
to  her  novels  and  romances,  after  all. 

Within  the  convent,  Teresa  felt  her  doubts  and 
fears  redoubled,  and  the  situation  which  she  found 
existing  in  her  new  abode  was  far  from  reassuring. 
Discipline  among  the  nuns  was  sadly  in  abeyance, 
and  a  stream  of  worldly  visitors  constantly  diverted 
the  minds  of  the  inmates.  This  it  was  that  revealed 
to  Teresa  her  life  work ;  she  would  set  about  accom- 
plishing the  needful  reform.  Fired  to  enthusiasm 
by  the  teachings  of  St.  Augustine,  she  resolved  to 
found  a  new  order,  from  whose  cloisters  the  world 


290  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

should  be  forever  banished.  And  the  order  came 
into  being  in  obedience  to  her  wish,  —  the  Descal- 
zas  Carmelitas,  or  unshod  Carmelite  nuns.  It  was 
not  long  before  sixteen  branches  of  their  convent 
sprang  into  existence  in  various  parts  of  Spain,  and 
the  order  still  endures,  the  nuns  fired  to-day  by  the 
same  holy  ardor  that  animated  their  founder  and 
prototype,  although  the  good  saint  has  been  three 
centuries  in  her  grave.  Teresa's  staff  and  crucifix, 
as  well  as  her  rosary,  remain  the  cherished  relics  of 
Avila,  and  are  venerated  as  they  deserve. 

So  Teresa  became  a  saint  after  all,  though  she 
was  denied  the  death  of  a  martyr.  She  died  peace- 
fully in  1582  while  on  a  pilgrimage  among  her  nuns, 
and  in  1622  was  canonized,  in  the  pontificate  of 
Gregory  XV.  It  was  better  so,  —  and  indeed  one 
doubts  that  she  would  have  become  the  second  saint 
in  the  Spanish  calendar  had  her  youthful  project  of 
self-immolation  been  carried  out.  Her  fame  rests 
on  a  lifetime  of  indefatigable  work  instead  of  on 
some  briefly  glorious  sacrifice,  and  few  of  all  the 
fellowship  of  saints  and  martyrs  have  a  clearer  title 
to  churchly  honor  than  the  patient  and  holy  maid 
of  Avila. 

While  our  minds  were  thus  full  of  Teresa's  story, 
her  city  came  into  view  from  afar,  rising  on  a  low 
eminence  in  the  midst  of  a  bleak  and  rocky  upland 
which  sloped  in  its  immensity  from  the  snowy 
mountains  to  the  distant  west.  The  train  glided  in 
huge  spirals  down  the  slope,  and  at  high  noon  halted 


AVILA  291 

in  the  station  of  Avila,  —  which  name,  as  I  have 
sought  elsewhere  to  indicate,  is  pronounced  with 
the  accent  on  its  first  syllable. 

The  usual  array  of  platform  idlers  assisted  in 
bearing  away  the  luggage  to  the  street  outside,  and 
a  solitary  omnibus,  which  dashed  up  a  few  moments 
later  at  a  furious  pace,  received  us  into  its  midst 
and  dashed  away  again  as  madly  as  before,  rattling 
along  a  bare  paseo  which  led  toward  the  distant 
town,  and  raising  a  suffocating  cloud  of  dust,  to 
settle  in  a  fine  powder  on  the  wayside  trees.  As  at 
Segovia,  the  avenue  of  approach  was  not  in  itself 
prepossessing.  It  was  only  when  the  coach  emerged 
from  the  scanty  shade  of  the  embryo  boulevard  and 
jolted  its  way  under  a  frowning  and  battlemented 
portal  in  the  city  wall  that  we  got  our  first  inkling 
of  the  city's  peculiar  charm. 

Through  the  echoing  depths  of  the  gate,  —  for  it 
was  a  tower  of  astonishing  thickness, — and  thence 
over  a  pavement  of  immense,  but  woefully  uneven, 
slabs,  we  lurched  our  way  to  the  hotel,  passing 
under  the  very  shadow  of  the  cathedral  which  faced 
our  inn  across  a  sunlit  square. 

The  hostelry  we  entered  with  some  misgiving. 
It  was  apparent  from  the  first  that  it  was  far  from 
ornate  and  luxurious,  and  to  expect  it  to  be  so  would 
have  been  highly  unreasonable.  It  was  bound  to  be 
primitive,  and  it  turned  out  to  be  decidedly  more  so 
than  the  hotel  at  Segovia.  It  smelled  strongly  of 
bare,  newly  washed  boards  and  other  things  not  as 


292  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

pleasant,  giving  the  general  effect  to  our  senses 
commonly  produced  at  home  by  an  "institution." 
It  was  innocent  of  carpets,  for  which  fact  we  were 
truly  thankful,  and  a  hasty  inspection  of  its  rooms 
reassured  us  as  to  its  cleanliness,  whatever  else 
might  be  said  of  its  conception  of  modern  conven- 
ience and  scientific  sanitation.  For  a  title  it  boasted 
the  name  of  Ingl6s,  —  but  as  we  were  off  the  beaten 
path  we  found  that  this  did  not  imply  that  English 
was  spoken  there,  and  as  at  Segovia  we  were  thrown 
entirely  upon  our  fragmentary  Spanish. 

Even  at  noonday,  Avila  proved  a  chilly  place. 
Cut  off  by  a  snowy  mountain  chain  from  the  balmy 
south,  and  lying  on  a  rocky  plateau  something  like 
four  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  she  could  hardly 
be  otherwise.  The  proprietor's  wife  assured  us  that 
even  in  midsummer  it  was  never  very  warm,  and 
at  this  spring  season,  —  especially  at  night,  —  we 
found  it  absolutely  and  uncompromisingly  cold  and 
bitter.  No  facilities  at  all  existed  for  heating  the 
upper  rooms  of  the  hotel,  but  in  the  great,  barnlike 
dining-room  there  was  the  usual  tiny  stove,  about 
the  size  and  shape  of  an  umbrella  stand,  from  which 
the  inevitable  ribbon  of  pipe  led  away  into  illimit- 
able distances  in  search  of  a  remote  chimney.  It 
served,  as  such  utensils  so  often  had  served  before, 
to  create  a  pleasant  illusion  of  warmth  during  lunch, 
—  but  subsequent  inspection  proved  that  there  was 
no  fire  in  it. 

Naturally,  since  it  stood  directly  opposite  our 


AVILA  293 

windows  and  was  the  most  obvious  feature  of  the 
city,  the  cathedral  demanded  and  received  our  first 
attention.  It  was  very  quaint  and  altogether  fine 
externally,  with  its  brave  square  tower  and  general 
air  of  a  mediaeval  stronghold,  —  a  fitting  epitome 
of  the  Church  Militant.  Its  facade  was  severely 
plain,  the  chief  attempt  at  ornament  being  no  more 
than  rows  of  cobble-stones  affixed  to  the  edges  of 
the  sturdy  tower,  like  stony  drops.  The  sides  were 
somewhat  less  bare,  but  still  preserved  the  effect  of 
uncommon  massiveness.  There  was  no  airy  light- 
ness to  the  flying  buttresses,  and  it  was  only  in  the 
framework  inclosing  the  great  doors  that  the  archi- 
tects seemed  to  have  permitted  themselves  to  in- 
dulge in  any  semblance  of  carved  adornment.  I 
think  we  found  it  a  welcome  relief  from  the  florid 
style  so  generally  employed  by  the  designers  of 
churches  in  Spain.  One  felt  that  it  made  no  preten- 
sions. It  was  simple  square-toed  dignity  embodied 
in  a  cathedral  that  seemed  almost  English.  In  its 
rear,  the  great  semicircular  apse  thrust  itself  boldly 
through  the  city  wall  and  braved  the  outer  country, 
forming  in  effect  a  part  of  the  fortifications,  and 
justifying  the  military  aspect  its  builders  saw  fit  to 
give  it.  It  was  a  gloomy  pile,  blackened  by  nearly 
six  centuries  of  Spanish  bleakness, 

Within,  it  was  dark  and  bitterly  cold.  Nor  was  it 
of  impressive  size.  More  than  ever  one  felt  ham- 
pered by  the  intrusion  of  the  walled  choir,  which 
took  away  so  generous  a  slice  of  the  dusky  nave  and 


294  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

robbed  one  of  the  dim  vista  which  would  so  enhance 
the  dignity  of  the  church.  But  it  could  not  be  said 
to  have  stolen  it  all.  There  was  a  decided  impres- 
siveness  in  the  dark,  damp  aisles  that  led  one  down 
through  the  twilight  to  the  ambulatory  in  the  apse, 
-  a  twilight  produced  by  dim  and  lofty  windows 
of  evident  antiquity,  through  whose  colored  and 
dingy  glass  a  little  light  managed  to  struggle.  In- 
wardly and  outwardly  it  was  thoroughly  consistent 
in  its  simplicity,  little  effort  being  lavished  on 
adornment  even  in  the  small  chapels. 

The  apse,  protruding  through  the  city  wall  and 
making  the  church  a  part  thereof,  is  the  oldest  part 
of  the  present  building,  we  were  told.  It  was  the 
apse  of  an  older  cathedral  on  this  same  site,  dating 
from  1091.  The  greater  part  of  the  edifice  to-day 
is  of  the  fourteenth  century,  but  by  the  happiest 
of  chances  the  little  that  survives  of  the  ancient 
work  remains  perfectly  consistent  with  the  later 
building.  Recessed  chapels,  seemingly  hewn  out 
of  the  massiveness  of  the  apse,  form  a  feature  of 
incomparable  grace,  and  the  later  work  above, 
mellowed  by  only  a  trifle  less  time,  harmonizes 
admirably  with  the  eleventh-century  fragments 
that  now  remain.  It  is  in  the  dusky  recesses  of  the 
apse  with  their  tall,  colored  windows  that  the  cathe- 
dral of  Avila  reaches  its  culminating  charm.  There 
is  one  notable  tomb  there  —  that  of  Bishop  Tos- 
tado  —  which  amply  repays  inspection  by  being 
a  superior  work  to  most  of  the  tombs  that  Spanish 


AVILA  295 

bishops  have  ordered  from  time  to  time  to  grace 
their  memory.  Tostado,  carved  in  marble  and  life 
size,  is  represented  writing  at  a  desk.  In  view  of 
the  common  tendency  among  sculptors  of  his 
day  toward  super-adornment,  this  tomb  reveals 
admirable  restraint,  and  one  may  pause  to  exam- 
ine it  without  being  vexed  with  one's  self  for  so 
doing. 

I  have  since  regretted  that  the  penetrating  chill 
drove  us  in  untimely  haste  from  the  cathedral.  It 
was  so  different  from  anything  we  had  seen,  and 
the  Spartan  simplicity  of  it  all,  inside  and  out,  was 
so  altogether  satisfying!  We  later  found  other 
churches  in  northern  Spain  that  compared  favor- 
ably with  it,  such  as  the  Seo  in  Saragossa  and  more 
especially  the  cathedral  of  Tarragona;  but  Avila 
was  the  first  of  the  simple,  direct,  unpretending 
churches  that  we  had  seen,  which  from  first  to 
last  offered  no  jarring  note.  Its  cloister,  to  be  sure, 
has  been  thoroughly  and  forever  spoiled,  and  one 
wastes  one's  time  in  seeking  it  to-day,  although  in 
the  fourteenth  century  it  must  have  been  a  charm- 
ing spot. 

We  left  the  cathedral,  as  I  say,  in  short  order, 
because  its  cold  speedily  pierced  us  to  the  marrow. 
How  the  aged  women  kneeling  at  its  altars  endured 
it  I  could  not  understand ;  but  they  did  so,  wrapped 
in  their  shawls  and  mantillas,  and  despite  the  dis- 
tressing prevalence  of  coughs  and  catarrh  there  was 
plentiful  evidence  at  almost  every  turn  that  people 


296  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

live  to  a  green  old  age  in  Avila.  There  was  one 
jarring  note,  however,  immediately  upon  emerg- 
ing from  the  gloom  of  the  church,  as  we  struck  off 
into  the  heart  of  the  city  —  a  coffin  borne  aloft 
on  the  shoulders  of  six  men,  and  followed  by  a  body 
of  mourners  all  in  sombre  black.  It  was  not  the 
first  funeral  we  had  witnessed  in  Spain,  but  this 
proved  less  heartless  than  some  of  the  others  had 
been.  Frequently  we  had  seen  a  rude  pine  box  being 
carried  to  the  cemetery,  unattended  save  by  the 
roughly  clad  men  who  had  been  hired  to  bear  it 
away,  —  perhaps  to  a  nameless  grave,  or  perhaps 
to  one  of  those  curious  pigeonholed  cemeteries  one 
soon  grows  to  know  so  well  in  Spain.  The  graves 
in  such  a  case  are  above  ground,  and  consist  of 
nothing  more  than  niches  in  a  hollow  quadrangle 
several  feet  high,  suggesting  vividly  either  a  dove- 
cote or  the  cells  in  a  honeycomb.1  And  travelers 
are  asked  to  believe  that  these  cells  are  rented  by 
the  year,  the  body  being  laid  away  in  its  allotted 
niche,  there  to  remain  only  so  long  as  rent  be  well 
and  truly  paid.  Should  there  be  default,  out  comes 
the  body,  to  be  tumbled  into  a  nameless  trench,  and 
the  cell  it  occupied  is  offered  for  rent  anew  !  Often, 
it  would  seem,  the  family  regard  the  body  as  of  no 
further  account  once  the  final  prayers  are  mumbled 

1  I  do  not  now  recall  that  I  ever  heard  a  Spanish  cemetery  of 
this  type  called  a  columbarium,  but  of  course  the  resemblance  to  a 
dove-cote  is  just  as  striking  as  that  which  led  the  Romans  to  give 
this  euphemistic  name  to  niches  designed  for  the  ashes  of  the  dead. 


AVILA  297 

over  it  at  home ;  for  we  had  repeatedly  seen  these 
gruesome  burdens  carried  nonchalantly  about  by 
mozos  as  any  other  parcel  might  be.  But  here  in 
Avila  it  was  a  welcome  relief  to  see  evidences  of 
deeper  respect. 

Of  course  there  was  a  public  square  with  the  in- 
evitable arcade,  and  we  discovered  it,  strangely 
enough,  outside  the  ancient  limits  of  the  city,  which 
the  walls  serve  to  mark  in  such  unmistakable  clear- 
ness. It  was  a  pleasant  spot,  with  many  people 
trafficking  in  the  shadow  of  its  arches,  and  just 
across  its  broad  expanse  we  could  see  a  handsome 
Romanesque  church  with  an  admirable  recessed 
arch  framing  its  deep  door  and  a  splendid  rose  win- 
dow above.  It  was,  as  it  proved,  the  church  of  San 
Pedro.  Two  carved  lions  set  just  before  its  entrance 
were  evidently  trying  to  climb  some  decorative 
stone  pillars,  and  the  whole  effect  was  remarkably 
satisfactory  from  the  architectural  standpoint, 
with  a  dash  of  quaintness  such  as  one  finds  at  al- 
most every  turn  in  Avila.  Even  the  sober  cathedral, 
with  all  its  dignity,  consented  to  be  guarded  by 
stone  lions  and  by  two  grotesque  wild  men,  primi- 
tively carved.  San  Pedro,  however,  we  found  much 
better  outside  than  in.  It  required  a  squad  of  anx- 
ious boys,  all  hopeful  of  fees,  to  fetch  the  sacristan, 
and  despite  the  general  beauty  of  the  Romanesque 
interior,  we  inclined  to  wish  we  had  left  him  undis- 
turbed to  his  siesta.  The  rose  window,  so  beautiful 
from  the  street,  was  not  so  charming  from  within, 


298  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

and  proved  to  be  filled  with  plain  glass.  To  mini- 
mize the  cold,  a  board  flooring  had  been  laid  over 
the  stone,  and  the  walls  seemed  to  have  been  but 
lately  whitewashed.  If  I  go  to  Avila  again,  —  which 
Heaven  send,  —  I  shall  spend  many  a  satisfying 
moment  in  contemplation  of  the  facade  of  Saint 
Peter's  church ;  but  I  shall  hardly  go  to  the  trouble 
of  entering  there  a  second  time.  Its  front  is  enough 
and  to  spare. 

Quite  different  is  the  case  with  San  Tomas,  which 
lies  outside  the  town  on  a  lane  leading  to  the  south 
across  the  less  bleak  portion  of  the  plain.  It  is  not 
the  exterior  of  this  shrine  that  holds  you,  but  the 
interior  and  the  adjacent  cloisters,  —  and  most 
of  all  the  incomparable  tomb  of  the  young  Prince 
Juan,  the  only  son  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella.  If 
there  were  nothing  in  the  church  but  this  simple 
sepulchre,  San  Tomas  could  on  no  account  be  ig- 
nored. As  it  is,  the  tomb  is  not  the  only  glory  of 
the  church,  which  possesses  a  fine  interior  with  the 
coro  alto  brought  to  a  degree  of  perfection  seldom 
equaled.  Most  of  all,  however,  we  admired  the  tomb, 
which  I  still  believe  to  be  the  finest  sculpture  of 
this  kind  in  all  Spain.  It  is  a  very  simple  work, 
merely  a  recumbent  figure  of  the  young  prince, 
carved  in  marble  by  Fancelli,  a  gifted  Florentine. 
But  in  the  face  and  figure  of  the  lad  there  is  much 
kingly  grace  and  charm.  His  death  was  most  un- 
timely, and  was,  of  course,  a  terrible  blow  to  his 
wide-ruling  parents,  who  never  recovered^ from  it, 


AVILA  299 

and  who  made  this  church  and  convent  of  San 
Tomas  from  that  time  forward  one  of  the  most 
cherished  spots  in  all  their  domains. 

Few  princes  ever  started  in  life  with  more  bril- 
liant promise.  Juan  was,  if  we  may  believe  the  tes- 
timony of  this  tomb,  a  youth  of  surpassing  grace 
of  body  and  beauty  of  feature ;  and  the  evidence  of 
Peter  Martyr,  who  had  charge  of  his  early  instruc- 
tion, leaves  no  doubt  as  to  his  qualities  of  mind  and 
heart.  It  is  related  that  he  was  given  a  residence 
in  the  splendid  courts  of  San  Tomas,  —  already  a 
favorite  churchly  foundation  of  the  Catholic  Kings, 
—  and  was  surrounded  there  by  the  noblest  and 
finest  youth  of  the  kingdom,  that  he  might  grow  to 
manhood  under  unexceptionable  auspices.  He  was 
apparently  a  boy  to  be  proud  of,  and  universally 
loved.  At  an  early  age  he  was  wedded  at  Burgos  to 
Margaret,  daughter  of  the  Emperor  Maximilian, 
and  every  prospect  of  happiness  and  wise  rule  lay 
before  him.  He  was  adored  alike  by  his  parents  and 
his  prospective  subjects.  But  within  a  brief  month 
after  his  marriage  he  sickened,  and  Ferdinand,  hur- 
rying from  a  distant  city,  reached  his  bedside  only 
in  time  to  see  him  die.  Isabella,  traveling  more 
slowly,  came  too  late. 

Robed  in  sackcloth,  the  two  monarchs  often  at- 
tended mass  in  San  Tomas,  from  whose  lofty  choir 
they  could  look  down  upon  the  tomb  of  their  lost 
prince,  his  body,  admirably  portrayed  in  the  purest 
marble,  stretched  before  the  high  altar  as  if  in  peace- 


300  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

ful  sleep.   The  chairs  in  which  the  kingly  parents 
sat  are  still  to  be  seen  in  the  high  choir. 

It  is  impossible  to  imagine  any  comparison  be- 
tween this  tomb  and  other  celebrated  ones  in  Spain 
which  shall  not  be  to  the  advantage  of  Prince  Juan's. 
Compare  it,  if  you  will,  with  the  canopied  burial- 
place  of  San  Vicente  in  his  church  not  far  away,  or 
with  the  monument  which  Isabella  erected  to  her 
royal  parents  in  the  convent  of  Miraflores  just  out- 
side Burgos,  and  you  will  do  no  injury  to  the  last 
resting-place  of  the  young  Prince  Juan.  I  cannot 
but  wonder  whether,  if  this  beautiful  youth  had 
lived,  and  if  young  Baltasar  Carlos  had  survived 
to  succeed  Philip  IV,  the  history  of  Spain  might 
not  have  been  more  glorious  than  it  was. 

We  were  fortunate  to  see  the  tomb  at  all,  as  it 
happened,  for  workmen  were  rapidly  obscuring 
it  with  a  temporary  Easter  monument,  —  one  of 
those  unpardonable  pavilions  which  so  disfigure 
the  churches  of  Spain  during  the  season  of  the  Pas- 
sion. A  few  hours  later,  and  this  admirable  bit  of 
grave  sculpture  would  have  disappeared  under  a 
mass  of  tawdry  gray  and  gold.  Of  course  the  pro- 
cess of  erecting  such  a  flimsy  thing  over  the  marble 
of  the  tomb  endangers  it  seriously,  and  the  monu- 
ment already  bears  evidence  of  having  been  sadly 
nicked  and  chipped.  Indeed,  it  is  said  that  boys 
of  the  town  used  freely  to  deface  it,  and  the  wonder 
is  that  it  has  come  off  so  well. 

The  senoras  were  precluded,  as  they  generally 


AVILA  301 

were,  from  visiting  the  adjoining  cloisters,  where 
once  Prince  Juan  had  his  being ;  but  the  senor  was 
graciously  allowed  to  enter  there,  and  will  boldly 
reveal  the  secret  that  they  were  very  fine.  There 
is  no  defacement  of  these  graceful  arcades  with 
brick  or  glass,  as  in  the  mouldy  old  courts  of  the 
cathedral  up  in  the  town.  Instead,  there  is  a  great 
airy  double  court,  with  an  upper  and  lower  cloister 
running  all  around  each,  and  much  greenery  within. 
That  women  may  not  enter  here  is  really  too  bad, 
for  the  courts  are  certainly  lovely  and  the  invasion 
of  these  precincts  by  femininity  could  do  no  serious 
harm.  But  the  fanciful  rule  still  obtains  in  many 
a  monastic  close,  and  will  not  be  abrogated,  even 
for  a  fee. 

I  was  not  shown  the  tomb  of  the  Inquisitor  Tor- 
quemada,  if  he  still  lies  in  this  church,  as  he  did  in 
Hutton's  day.  Neither  does  Baedeker  mention  his 
tomb.  Those  who  have  been  shown  it  are  said  to 
have  defiled  it  on  occasion  in  a  way  that  genuinely 
Christian  people  should  be  thoroughly  ashamed  of. 
Hutton  relates  that  an  American  tourist  boasted 
in  his  presence  of  having  spit  upon  the  grave,1  —  so 
possibly  the  sacristans  have  learned  to  beware  all 
Protestants.  It  seems  to  be  the  verdict  of  history  at 
present  that  Torquemada  was  not  so  much  worse 
than  other  people  of  his  time,  although  his  memory 
persists  in  remaining  a  bloody  one  in  the  popular 
estimation.  He  did  not  originate,  but  merely  reor- 
1  Edward  Hutton,  The  Cities  of  Spain,  p.  72. 


302  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

ganized  the  Inquisition ;  and  it  is  coming  to  be  a 
generally  held  opinion  that  his  administration  of 
the  office  was  no  worse  than  that  of  other  inquis- 
itors. Still  it  is  true  that  especial  opprobrium  at- 
taches to  his  name,  and  it  is  probable  that  many 
haters  of  bigotry  and  cruelty  exist  who  would  gladly 
vent  a  senseless  spite  on  an  unfeeling  slab  of  mossy 
marble.  Wherefore  it  is  just  as  well  that  not  much 
is  made  of  Torquemada's  grave.  His  memory,  at 
the  best,  is  far  from  pleasant,  and  there  are  many 
much  gentler  and  holier  ones  clustering  around 
Avila  rich  in  saints.  Why  emphasize  the  fact  that 
it  was  in  the  secluded  courts  of  San  Tomas  that 
Isabella  was  induced  to  sign  the  warrant  of  the  In- 
quisition, that  most  cruel  of  all  Spain's  fanatic 
blunders  ?  For  myself,  I  much  prefer  to  -remember 
Santa  Teresa,  who  helped  women  to  be  better,  or 
even  San  Segundo,  who  pushed  a  Moor  off  the  walls. 
And  since  Avila  is  discreetly  silent  over  her  In- 
quisitional relics  and  traditions,  let  us,  also,  forbear 
to  speak  o'er  much  of  them. 

The  overpowering  charm  of  Avila  to-day,  how- 
ever, lies  not  in  her  many  churches,  beautiful  as 
some  of  them  are,  nor  yet  in  the  memory  of  her 
most  famous  and  exemplary  saint.  It  is  to  be  found 
rather  in  the  stupendous  cincture  of  ancient  walls 
which  encircle  the  town  now  as  of  old,  almost 
perfectly  preserved,  and  buttressed  as  of  yore  by 
four  score  of  mighty  towers.  To  see  these  at  their 
best  one  must  go  outside  the  city,  preferably  to- 


AVILA  303 

ward  the  west,  and  ascend  the  slight  grade  of  the 
highroad  to  Salamanca.  One  crosses  the  river,  — 
a  rather  inconsiderable  stream,  but  boasting  two 
parallel  bridges  for  all  that,  —  and  climbs  up  to  a 
grassy  knoll  near  by.  It  is  a  sort  of  second  Golgotha, 
marked  from  afar  by  a  great  stone  cross ;  and  from 
the  little  platform  on  which  the  cross  is  set  the  view 
back  upon  the  walls  and  towers  of  Avila  is  unsur- 
passed. We  climbed  to  the  level  of  the  cross,  and 
feasted  our  eyes  on  that  incomparable  city  of  the 
past.  If  the  alcazar  crowning  the  steeps  of  Segovia 
had  been  the  castle  of  our  childhood  dreams,  this 
comprehensive  view  of  well-walled  Avila  realized 
to  the  full  the  story-book  notions  of  what  a  walled 
city  should  be.  There  lay  the  whole  northern  and 
western  flanks  of  the  town,  protected  by  massive 
bulwarks  of  stone,  the  towers,  huge  and  semicir- 
cular, breaking  the  outline  at  regular  intervals,  the 
whole  crowned  with  battlements.  Here  and  there 
yawning  gates  pierced  the  fortifications,  and  we 
should  not  have  been  in  the  least  astonished  to  have 
seen  a  cavalcade  of  knights  with  glancing  helms 
come  sallying  forth. 

The  practical  completeness  of  the  whole  struc- 
ture to-day  is  the  only  surprising  thing.  But  com- 
plete it  is,  and  one  will  do  very  well  to  walk  along 
the  northern  side  of  the  city  just  under  the  shadow 
of  the  mighty  bulwark  to  get  an  adequate  idea  of 
its  massiveness.  Here  and  there  on  the  tops  of 
towers  that  thrust  themselves  above  the  crenella- 


304  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

tions  of  the  wall  one  will  inevitably  see,  as  we  saw, 
immense  nests  of  storks;  and  if  one  is  fortunate 
there  will  be  seen  the  storks  themselves  returning, 
no  doubt  from  beneficent  visits  to  the  fecund  fami- 
lies of  Avila,  to  bring  food  to  their  own  young. 

These  walls  were  here  when  Teresa  and  her  little 
brother  toddled  out  to  get  the  Moors  to  martyr 
them ;  in  fact,  at  that  distant  day  they  were  already 
five  hundred  years  old,  dating  as  they  do  from  1090. 
Nine  years  was  this  stupendous  upland  fortress  in 
building ;  and  the  work  was  so  well  laid  that  it  seems 
amply  able  to  endure  for  yet  another  millennium, 
—  perhaps  Macaulay's  New  Zealander,  after  he  is 
done  with  the  broken  arches  of  London  Bridge, 
may  find  the  walls  of  Avila  as  sound  and  intact  as 
the  Church  of  Rome  herself! 

Avila  is  far  less  obviously  Moorish  to-day  than 
Segovia,  although  she  once  felt  the  Moorish  yoke. 
Her  streets,  while  narrow,  are  not  notable  for  that 
characteristic  to  the  degree  that  we  saw  them  to  be 
in  Toledo.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Moorish  occupancy 
of  Avila  was  brief,  and  the  city  fell  an  easy  prey  to 
Alfonso  of  Castile,  under  whose  reign  it  developed 
into  a  place  of  much  prosperity.  It  remained  a  con- 
siderable city  down  to  the  seventeenth  century,  and 
then  fell  into  a  decline  from  which  it  seems  discour- 
agingly  slow  to  recuperate.  It  has  no  commercial 
glory  now.  Most  of  its  business  is  done  well  out- 
side the  girth  of  those  tremendous  walls,  and  they 
keep  but  an  empty  guard  over  a  population  that 


AVILA  305 

does  not  begin  to  fill  the  space  within  them.  I  sup- 
pose this  overflow  of  the  town  to  the  outer  country 
is  a  relic  of  its  palmy  days ;  but  it  is  a  curious  fact 
that  the  older  churches,  built  much  longer  ago  than 
other  structures,  were  set  outside  the  walls.  Out- 
side the  walls  also  is  the  convent  of  the  Discalced 
Carmelites  which  Teresa  founded,  and  whose  ad- 
joining orchard  is  to  this  day  regarded  as  planted 
by  her  gentle  hands.  In  short,  Avila,  like  Carcas- 
sonne, has  seen  fit  to  leave  her  outgrown  shell  and 
yet  cherish  with  a  sedulous  care  that  heroic  monu- 
ment of  her  tempestuous  past. 

When  we  left  the  knoll  of  the  cross  and  set  out 
for  the  city  again,  we  were  diverted  by  a  fascinating 
glimpse  of  a  tiny  church  not  far  from  the  river's 
brim.  It  was  the  isolated  church  of  San  Segundo, 
another  of  Avila's  noted  and  saintly  bishops.  Three 
rude  crosses  in  its  foreground  made  the  site  look 
even  more  like  a  Golgotha  than  the  knoll  across 
the  river.  A  peasant  woman  and  her  little  girl  came 
gladly  at  our  call  and  opened  the  great  door  with 
a  fittingly  enormous  key.  It  was  no  proud  shrine, 
but  simple  and  quaint,  both  within  and  without, 
almost  without  interior  adornment  save  for  the 
monument  of  San  Segundo  himself  in  a  corner  near 
the  altar.  His  celebrity,  we  learned,  was  achieved, 
not  by  a  lifetime  of  pious  works  as  Teresa's  had 
been,  but  simply  because  he  had  tumbled  an  un- 
suspecting Moorish  infidel  down  to  his  death  from 
one  of  the  city  towers,  —  for  which  deed  of  grace 


TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

he  was  duly  and  devoutly  canonized.  His  tomb, 
while  notable,  is  not  to  be  compared  in  beauty  with 
Prince  Juan's.  Nevertheless  it  has  become  a  spot  of 
much  sanctity,  and  a  hole  in  its  pedestal  serves  the 
reverent  believer  as  a  place  into  which  to  thrust 
hands  and  rosaries  in  hope  of  blessing. 

The  altar  of  this  diminutive  and  beautiful 
church  was  not  without  its  interest,  not  because  of 
any  intrinsic  merit,  but  because  of  the  votive  offer- 
ings which  adorned  it.  They  were  mostly  miniature 
representations  of  human  eyes,  and  recalled  the 
common  custom  of  the  modern  Greeks,  who  so  load 
their  altars  —  or  what  serves  as  an  altar  in  their 
religion  —  with  metal  limbs  and  models  of  other 
bodily  organs  in  thanks  for  healing.  These  eyes, 
however,  were  offerings  to  Santa  Lucia,  the  patron- 
ess of  those  who  suffer  with  ocular  diseases,  —  an 
honor  conferred  on  her  because  she  is  claimed  to 
have  sacrificed  her  own  eyes  rather  than  yield  her 
person  to  a  pagan  suitor.  Apart  from  these  notable 
decorations  of  the  altar  and  the  tomb,  the  church  of 
San  Segundo  made  no  pretensions  to  glory,  save  by 
the  possession  of  a  splendid  Romanesque  portal. 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  while  wandering  along 
the  open  plaza  just  east  of  the  city  wall,  we  came 
upon  the  handsome  church  of  San  Vicente  adjacent 
to  the  imposing  city  gate  that  also  bears  that  name. 
It  proved  to  be  a  notably  fine  example  of  the  Ro- 
manesque, with  an  external  loggia  in  a  somewhat 
different  manner  from  those  of  the  Segovia  churches, 


AVILA  307 

which  adds  immensely  to  the  general  attractive- 
ness of  the  building.  Indeed,  the  church  has  been 
taken  over  by  the  government,  and  is  now  sure  of 
preservation  as  a  national  monument,  as  it  well 
deserves  to  be.  By  tradition  and  association  this 
church  has  a  triple  sanctity,  for  the  bones  of  three 
saints  repose  there  in  an  ornate  and  canopied  tomb. 
These  are  San  Vicente  and  his  two  sisters,  Santa 
Sabina  and  Santa  Cristeta,  whose  sainthood  is 
based  on  a  martyrdom  and  incidental  miracle. 

Needless  to  say,  this  martyrdom  occurred  a  long 
time  ago,  —  in  the  year  of  grace  303,  —  so  that  the 
addition  of  a  miracle  is  not  surprising.  It  is  related 
that  San  Vicente  and  his  sisters,  being  far  in  ad- 
vance of  the  age,  and  steadfastly  embracing  a  faith 
which  the  pagan  inhabitants  of  "Avela"  abhorred 
and  feared,  were  cruelly  put  to  death  upon  a  rock 
standing  on  this  very  site.  Their  specific  crime  was 
defiling  an  altar  of  Jupiter.  A  Jew  passing  by  and 
viewing  the  slaughter  of  these  gentle  souls  made 
some  despiteful  remark;  "whereat  a  serpent  flew 
from  a  hole  under  the  rock  and  stung  him  with  the 
deadly  venom  of  its  fangs."  The  miracle  has  the 
redeeming  feature  in  this  case  of  being  a  very  pos- 
sible one ;  but  the  really  significant  thing  about  it 
would  seem  to  be  its  revelation  of  the  hatred  of  the 
Spaniard  for  the  Hebrew  within  his  gates.  Never- 
theless, the  Spanish  legend  goes  on  to  say  that  the 
Jew  did  not  die,  but  recovered  of  his  bite ;  and  in 
consequence  of  his  escape  became  a  good  Catholic 


308  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

and  erected  this  church  as  a  votive  offering.  For 
centuries  after  the  hole  in  the  rock  where  the  sacred 
serpent  dwelt  was  used  as  a  place  of  solemn  adjura- 
tion, the  maker  of  an  oath  thrusting  his  hand  into 
the  snake's  den  in  order  that,  if  he  swore  falsely,  the 
reptile  might  sting  him.  It  is  further  stated  that 
one  person  thus  falsely  swearing  actually  suffered 
the  penalty  and  was  bitten,  —  being  no  less  a  per- 
sonage than  a  bishop  of  Avila. 

I  suppose  we  may  safely  take  the  opinion  of  com- 
petent critics  that  the  terra-cotta  statues  in  the 
south  doorway  of  San  Vicente  are  among  the  finest 
examples  of  their  kind  in  Europe.  Several,  at 
any  rate,  have  said  so.  But  I  suspect  that  the  taste 
for  statuettes  of  this  kind  may  be  an  acquired  one. 
Nobody,  however,  will  miss  the  appeal  which  the 
church  as  a  whole  makes,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that 
the  three  saints  were  worthy  of  so  imposing  a  monu- 
ment. As  for  their  actual  tomb,  a  gloomy  sarcopha- 
gus with  a  late-Gothic  canopy,  it  is  curious  with- 
out being  really  beautiful.  Down  in  the  depths  of 
the  vaults  below  they  still  show  you  the  rock  on 
which  the  saints  suffered  death,  and  no  doubt  the 
hole  of  the  serpent.  But  these,  like  the  miracle, 
we  were  content  to  take  on  faith,  and  did  not  go  to 
see  them. 

We  did  go,  however,  to  the  office  of  a  local  dili- 
gence to  inquire  about  taking  passage  across  coun- 
try to  Salamanca,  which  we  knew  lay  about  thirty- 
five  miles  to  the  westward.  Indeed,  we  had  begun 


AVILA  309 

to  feel  that  to  emerge  from  Spain  without  riding 
in  a  diligence  by  night  would  be  little  short  of 
shameful;  and  as  posters  were  everywhere  an- 
nouncing that  a  coche  correo,  or  mail  coach,  plied 
regularly  between  Avila  and  Penaranda,  we  deter- 
mined to  investigate  it,  knowing  that  from  Pena- 
randa there  was  a  short  railroad  to  the  university 
city.  Besides,  Penaranda  was  one  of  the  cities  of 
Spain  where  George  Borrow  admitted  he  actually 
managed  to  dispose  of  a  few  Bibles  during  his  in- 
dustrious and  diverting  service  as  a  colporteur,  and 
we  were  not  averse  to  seeing  it  ourselves  in  transit. 
The  diligence,  however,  proved  to  be  a  contrary 
creature  that  was  scheduled  to  crawl  out  of  Avila 
at  three  in  the  morning,  reaching  Penaranda  next 
day  some  hours  too  late  for  the  only  train.  And  so 
we  gave  up  our  one  chance  for  a  diligence  ride,  and 
drowned  our  disappointment  in  cups  of  uncom- 
monly pasty  chocolate  at  a  tiny  inn  close  by. 

With  the  night  came  the  usual  coldness,  several 
times  intensified.  The  bare  floors  of  the  Hotel  In- 
gles, relieved  only  by  diminutive  islands  of  rag 
matting,  gave  us  cause  to  hasten  to  our  beds,  which 
happily  were  soft  and  well  spread  with  thick  blan- 
kets. Caloriferos  such  as  we  had  enjoyed  at  Segovia 
were  apparently  unknown  in  Avila,  but  the  maid 
improvised  some,  —  old  champagne  bottles,  filled 
with  hot  water  and  tightly  corked !  All  night  the 
sereno  broke  the  stillness  at  half-hour  intervals, 
and  at  three  o'clock  we  heard  without  envy  the 


3io  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

coche  correo  rumble  out  of  town  across  the  tumul- 
tuous pavement  of  the  cathedral  square.  Doubtless 
it  would  have  been  a  diverting  experience  and 
might  have  lifted  this  chapter  to  undreamed-of 
heights,  had  we  essayed  the  ride;  but  I  am  still 
glad  we  lay  supinely  abed  at  the  Ingles.  Gentle 
reader,  when  you  are  traveling  in  Spain  take  what 
good  gifts  the  thoughtful  gods  provide,  and  be 
thankful !  Let  superior  travelers  like  the  admirable 
Hutton  tell  you  how  much  better  it  is  to  come  to 
Avila  on  mule-back  across  the  cheerless  desert  than 
it  is  to  ride  thither  in  the  train  de  luxe,  —  but,  as 
you  are  wise,  stick  to  the  de  luxe  none  the  less ! 
You  will  miss  traversing  a  rocky  upland  of  sur- 
passing barrenness,  and  you  will  see  less  of  the 
dreary  wilderness  of  boulders  which  the  peasants 
still  insist  are  the  "  tears  of  Christ."  But  you  will, 
I  am  sure,  see  quite  enough  of  it  after  all.  Doubt- 
less it  seems  a  long  farewell  to  romance,  but  who 
can  say  that  some  future  voyager  will  not  look  back 
with  infinite  regret  for  the  good  old  days  when 
mankind  journeyed  so  romantically  over  Spain  in 
the  "rapide"? 

Had  we  hurried  of!  incontinently  through  the 
moonless  night  to  Salamanca,  we  should  have 
missed  our  morning  ramble  through  the  older  parts 
of  Avila,  —  the  part  within  the  city  walls  where 
the  streets  were  narrow  and  crooked  and  uncom- 
monly uneven.  They  were  cobble-paved,  and  here 
and  there  we  found  a  bit  of  ancient  architecture 


AVILA  311 

that  was  fascinating  in  the  extreme.  Most  of  this 
was  to  be  found  only  in  the  inward  parts  of  the 
houses,  in  unsuspected  courts,  patios,  and  narrow 
byways.  We  ventured  with  timorous  feet  into 
many  a  forbidding  old  building,  clambering  up  to 
narrow  windows  that  we  might  get  hasty  glimpses 
into  tightly  closed  courtyards  where  stairways  of 
surpassing  grace  led  upward  to  double  colonnades. 
Now  and  then  there  was  a  bit  of  architecture  that 
was  positively  baronial  to  outward  view,  and  in 
such  a  case  its  interior  patio  was  certain  to  be  mag- 
nificent even  in  its  decay.  Here  and  there  also  we 
found  specimens  of  those  absurd  stone  pigs  which 
seem  to  have  come  down  from  a  very  remote  past, 
and  which  flourish  chiefly  in  Avila.  I  had,  I  recol- 
lect, seen  one  at  Segovia  a  few  days  before,  but  at 
the  time  without  due  inspection  had  set  it  down 
as  probably  a  battered  lion.  Now  we  found  them 
everywhere,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  them; 
they  were  unmistakably  pigs,  from  their  snouts  to 
their  curly  tails. 

These  ancient  swine  have  remained  a  mystery 
to  us  ever  since.  The  natives,  when  interrogated, 
opened  their  lips  and  poured  out  such  torrents  of 
explanatory  Spanish  that  we  were  instantly  swept 
off  our  feet  and  mentally  drowned  in  its  rush.  All 
that  we  could  learn  with  certainty  was  that  they 
were  pigs,  pigs  of  heroic  mould,  and  dating  back  to 
a  distantly  bygone  day.  But  were  they  idols  ?  Were 
they  a  bid  of  defiance  to  the  despised  Hebrews? 


312  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

Did  they  grace  the  housetops  of  nobility?  The 
peasants  apparently  did  not  know,  —  but  in  saying 
so  they  invariably  employed  words  enough  for  a 
treatise.  The  best  pig  of  all  was  the  one  whose  pic- 
ture I  took  and  who  is  reproduced  here.  He  stood 
in  a  shady  little  park  in  front  of  an  imposing  old 
castle,  with  snout  admirably  carved,  a  tail  in  low 
relief  curled  tightly  astern,  and  legs  that  were  con- 
vincing in  their  piggishness.  Indeed,  one  could 
almost  hear  him  grunt.  I  imagine  the  explanation 
that  Hare  gives  is  as  good  as  any ;  to  wit,  that  these 
pigs  were  the  venerated  idols  of  the  primitive  in- 
habitants. 

One  other  feature  of  the  local  architecture  might 
well  be  spoken  of  here,  although  it  is  by  no  means 
confined  to  Avila.  And  that  is  the  common  em- 
ployment of  the  royal  escutcheon  as  a  mural  deco- 
ration in  the  facades  of  royal  and  noble  residences. 
In  Avila  this  was  especially  notable,  and  the  most 
striking  of  all  was  the  device  of  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella  with  its  much-discussed  motto,  which  we 
had  seen  in  various  other  places  frequented  by  the 
Catholic  Kings.  It  consisted  of  the  coupled  shields 
of  each  monarch,  bearing  respectively  a  yoke  and  a 
bundle  of  arrows,  and  above  or  below  these  the 
motto  "Tanto  Monta"  — generally  taken  as  mean- 
ing "  One  is  as  good  as  (tantamount  to)  the  other. " 
Some  claim  that  Ferdinand  added  this  enigmatic 
device  in  a  spirit  of  regal  jealousy ;  others  that  it  was, 
on  the  contrary,  a  very  pretty  compliment  to  his 


A  STONE   PIG  OF  AVILA 


AVILA  313 

queenly  spouse, —  and  who  shall  say  it  was  not  the 
latter?  As  for  the  carved  yoke  and  the  arrows, 
they  were  simply  intended  to  represent  the  initials 
of  the  royal  pair,  —  the  arrows  (flechas)  for  Ferdi- 
nand and  the  yoke  (iugo)  for  Isabella. 

One  other  famous  escutcheon  used  as  a  mural 
decoration  is  the  celebrated  "Nodo"  shield  of  Se- 
ville, which  embodies  an  ingenious  pun.  It  consists 
of  the  word  "  Nodo"  divided  into  its  two  syllables 
with  a  skein  of  yarn  between  them  in  the  shape  of  a 
figure  8.  The  explanation  of  this  is  that  when  Al- 
fonso the  Wise  was  deserted  by  all  his  other  cities 
he  bestowed  this  device  upon  Seville  in  recognition 
of  her  abiding  loyalty,  the  significance  of  the  rebus 
being  "  No  m'ha  dejado,"  —  "  she  has  not  forsaken 
me."  The  word  for  "skein"  in  Spanish  is  " ma- 
de j a,"  and  its  inclusion  between  the  two  syllables 
sufficed  to  spell  out  the  sentence.  One  other  pun- 
ning escutcheon,  by  the  way,  is  the  pomegranate 
of  Granada,  — granada  being  the  Spanish  word  for 
that  well-known  fruit.  But  the  one  most  commonly 
seen  throughout  Spain  is  the  Tan  to  Monta  of  the 
Catholic  Kings,  which  they  stamped  industriously 
on  everything  they  possessed,  not  buildings  alone, 
but  on  furniture  and  books.  So  much,  then,  for  the 
general  subject  of  escutcheons  in  Spanish  architec- 
ture, a  topic  which  doubtless  furnishes  forth  a  con- 
siderable volume  of  literature. 

We  finally  took  leave  of  Avila  in  a  noonday  train, 
—  anything  but  a  luxe,  —  and  had  a  splendid  view 


3i4  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

of  her  receding  walls  and  towers  as  the  train  sped 
across  the  treeless  desert,  a  land  of  little  herbage 
and  notable  only  for  its  litter  of  enormous  rocks.  It 
is  a  pretty  fancy  that  calls  them  the  "  tears  of  Jesus" 
let  fall  by  the  passing  Saviour  in  pity  for  the  city's 
sterile  situation.  Gradually  Avila  sank  into  that 
mass  of  scattered  stones,  and  steadily  the  train 
jogged  down  into  the  limitless  plains,  while  clouds 
came  up  and  speedily  sent  down  torrents  of  rain 
and  icy  hail.  In  lofty  Avila,  as  we  learned  by  the 
papers  next  day,  it  snowed ! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SALAMANCA 

GOOD  fortune  attended  us  at  Medina  del  Campo 
and  we  found  there  a  mixed  train  which  was 
about  to  depart  for  Salamanca.  Its  presence  in  the 
spacious  railway  station  seemed  to  us  a  matter  of 
course,  the  time-table  having  mentioned  it  without 
apparent  comment ;  besides,  who  ever  heard  of  such 
a  thing  as  a  mixed  train  that  ran  only  twice  a  week  ? 
That  peculiarity  might  be  expected  of  a  de  luxe,  but 
surely  never  of  an  humble  train  divided  between  a 
few  passenger  coaches  and  an  interminable  string 
of  freight  cars !  All  of  which  shows  how  little  we 
knew,  even  at  this  late  day,  of  the  Spanish  railway 
and  its  methods !  At  any  rate,  the  train  was  there, 
and  we  were  thrust  into  its  depths  by  an  obliging 
mozo,  while  the  downpour  of  rain  and  hailstones 
made  pleasant  music  on  the  lofty  glass  roof  of  the 
station,  —  a  large  and  creditable  station,  too,  for  a 
point  so  remote  from  the  haunts  of  men.  Medina 
is  no  longer  a  city  of  importance,  although  once  it 
was  one  of  the  favorite  resorts  of  Isabella  the  Cath- 
olic, who  died  there  in  1504,  bequeathing  to  Spain 
a  new  and,  alas,  a  troublesome  world. 

The  rain  proved  but  a  passing  shower,  which 
must  have  rejoiced  the  enginemen  not  a  little,  ex- 


3i6  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

posed  as  they  were  in  their  cabless  perch  behind 
their  antiquated  locomotive.  And  even  the  neigh- 
boring farmers,  to  whom  the  downpour  must  have 
been  thoroughly  welcome,  seemed  forlorn  enough 
as  they  passed  us  on  the  plain,  huddled  in  their 
voluminous  capes  on  the  backs  of  plodding  asses, 
and  looking  from  a  little  distance  like  isolated 
camels  crawling  across  a  level  and  water-soaked 
desert. 

But  it  was  far  from  being  a  particularly  arid  des- 
ert compared  with  that  vale  of  tears  that  we  had 
left  behind  at  Avila.  Some  little  attempt  at  irri- 
gation, doubtless  learned  from  the  ancient  Moors, 
had  given  to  the  broad  vega  a  sparse  and  infrequent 
fertility.  Occasional  small  hamlets  of  mud-colored 
houses  cowered  under  the  inevitable  church,  and 
afforded  excuses  for  stopping  the  train.  But  of 
scenery  there  was  none  in  the  accepted  sense.  It 
was  mile  after  mile  of  unbroken  prairie,  with  barely 
a  knoll  to  be  seen.  Now  and  then,  however,  the 
train  passed  through  pleasant  groves  of  trees,  not 
olives  merely,  but  what  looked  like  very  ancient 
oaks.  These  were  but  occasional,  and  when,  at  last, 
we  neared  Salamanca,  every  vestige  of  woods  had 
vanished  and  the  road  began  to  ascend  a  low  em- 
inence into  the  midst  of  what  Baedeker  was  so  fond 
of  calling  a  "treeless  upland  plain." 

It  was  well  toward  evening,  and  the  usual  chill 
was  abroad.  At  the  top  of  the  grade,  when  we  first 
caught  sight  of  the  many  towers  of  Salamanca, 


SALAMANCA  317 

they  stood  dark  and  cold  in  silhouette  against  the 
distant  whiteness  of  snow-clad  hills.  By  the  road- 
side close  at  hand  were  patches  of  freshly  fallen 
snow,  showing  that  we  were  still  pretty  well  up  in 
the  world,  —  nearly  three  thousand  feet,  in  fact. 
Altogether  it  was  a  wintry  outlook.  The  lower  hills 
were  benumbed  and  blue,  and  in  the  deep  ruts  and 
mud  of  the  station  yard  dismal  puddles  testified 
to  the  recent  violence  of  the  rain.  And  yet,  despite 
the  bleakness  and  the  biting  wind  that  had  followed 
the  storm,  the  first  view  of  the  ancient  university 
city  was  not  without  its  charm. 

We  were  the  only  passengers  who  boarded  the 
omnibus  of  the  Fonda  del  Comercio,  for  travelers 
come  to  Salamanca  far  less  often  than  they  should 
at  any  season,  and  were  hardly  to  be  expected  in 
Holy  Week.  As  for  the  city,  we  had  formed  no 
preconceived  notions  of  its  appearance,  and  as  the 
omnibus  jolted  down  through  the  gathering  dusk, 
with  much  splashing  in  the  slough  of  fresh  mud, 
we  began  to  entertain  the  customary  misgiving  as 
to  what  we  should  find,  not  only  in  the  city,  but 
also  in  the  hotel.  Down  a  long  avenue  and  into  a 
narrower  and  even  less  promising  street  the  coach 
rattled  its  way,  finally  coming  to  a  halt  in  the 
semi-darkness  before  the  low-browed  door  of  an 
ancient  building,  evidently  once  a  private  resi- 
dence, but  now  converted  to  the  uses  of  an  inn  by 
uniting  several  adjacent  buildings  in  one.  Little 
did  we  divine  from  the  first  contact  that  the  Fonda 


3i8  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

del  Comercio  of  Salamanca  was  destined  to  pro- 
vide one  of  the  pleasantest  of  all  our  Spanish 
experiences.  It  certainly  chilled  us  at  our  first 
meeting,  but  that  was  only  a  cautious  native 
reserve.  Before  a  day  had  passed  it  had  warmed 
to  us,  and  its  staff,  from  the  proprietor  down,  re- 
ceived us  as  bosom  friends.  It  was  infinitely  less 
primitive  than  the  hostelry  at  Avila  had  been ;  and 
for  the  volume  and  high  excellence  of  its  daily  food 
it  left  behind  in  our  minds  an  impression  which, 
shameful  as  it  may  be  to  confess  it,  almost  rivals 
the  recollection  of  the  great  cathedral,  the  univer- 
sity, and  the  college  of  the  Noble  Irish ! 

Late  as  it  was,  and  cold,  we  flung  our  valises  into 
the  rooms  'allotted  us,  and  with  the  impetuous  en- 
thusiasm of  a  De  Amicis  rushed  off  bareheaded 
for  a  glance  at  the  town  before  dinner.  The  side- 
walks, when  there  were  any,  were  but  ribbons  of 
flagging  whose  worn  surfaces  were  dotted  with 
pools  of  water.  Everything  was  still  dripping.  The 
ineffectual  fire  of  infrequent  lamps  was  reflected 
in  a  hundred  dancing  rivulets  flowing  through  the 
lately  drenched  streets.  Carriages  plashed  their 
way  hither  and  yon,  splattering  everything  and 
everybody  in  range.  The  famous  Plaza  Mayor  was 
a  huge  and  muddy  quadrangle  hemmed  in  by  lofty 
and  arcaded  buildings,  murky  and  mysterious  in 
the  evening  mist.  Obviously  this  was  no  time  to 
see  Salamanca,  and  yet  it  was  very  far  from  being 
a  bad  introduction  to  that  ancient  and  classic  town. 


SALAMANCA  319 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  our  hurried  flight  in  the  dusk 
through  blind  alleys  and  gloomy  streets  without 
map  or  guide.  I  make  no  doubt  the  few  Salaman- 
tines  abroad  at  that  hour  thought  us  daft.  For  to 
them  the  city  was  but  a  bitter  reality,  —  a  place 
with  a  glorious  past  and  a  thoroughly  barren  pre- 
sent. 

The  night  was  punctuated,  as  usual,  by  the  vocif- 
erations of  the  sereno  and  by  the  arrival  of  occa- 
sional omnibuses  from  late  trains.  For  inasmuch 
as  Salamanca  lies  midway  on  the  line  from  the 
north  to  Lisbon,  the  trains  take  thought  chiefly  for 
arriving  and  departing  at  proper  hours  at  those  dis- 
tant termini ;  and  it  follows  that  most  of  them  pass 
through  Salamanca  at  unearthly  hours  of  the  dead 
night.  In  fact,  there  were  almost  no  day  trains  of 
any  sort,  and  we  had,  by  sheer  lucky  accident, 
blundered  upon  the  only  one  there  was,  —  the 
mixed  train  that  ran  but  twice  a  week.  Had  we 
come  on  any  other  day,  we  should  have  spent  the 
night  at  Medina  of  the  Plain,  where  Baedeker  had 
stigmatized  the  inns  as  "both  indifferent."  By 
piling  up  many  blankets  and  calling  for  three  bright 
brazen  caloriferos,  we  managed  to  spend  the  night 
in  comfort  on  couches  of  stupendous  altitude.  And 
in  the  morning  we  were  wakened  by  the  unwelcome 
sound  of  rain.  By  some  curious  good  fortune  it  was 
the  first  stormy  day  we  had  experienced  in  Spain. 

However,  we  splashed  boldly  out  into  the  wet, 
and  found  the  great  plaza  more  fascinating  by  day 


320  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

than  by  night.  It  was  vastly  busier  than  the  hand- 
some and  quaint  old  square  of  Segovia,  a  perfect 
quadrangle  of  oblong  shape,  and  its  midst  was  a 
lush  mass  of  greenery  surrounding  the  inevitable 
pavilion  for  a  band.  The  long  and  echoing  corridors 
of  the  surrounding  arcade  gave  shelter  from  the  rain 
and  an  opportunity  to  inspect  the  shops  in  comfort ; 
but  the  latter  were  commonplace,  and  even  the 
buildings  were  not  older  than  early  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. All  Salamanca,  it  would  seem,  was  surging  a 
dripping  way  up  and  down  the  arcades  on  every 
side  of  the  square. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  our  first  thought  was  of 
the  cathedral,  the  way  to  which  proved  extremely 
easy  to  find  from  the  map.  Nevertheless,  we  could 
not  go  directly  thither  because  of  sundry  lions  in 
the  path.  The  first  was  the  church  of  San  Mar- 
tin, a  venerable  pile  close  to  the  plaza,  its  antique 
portico  adorned  with  rude  reliefs  representing  the 
saint  in  his  noble  act  of  bestowing  his  cloak  upon 
a  beggar.  Within  it  was  still  a  notable  example  of 
late-Romanesque,  although  sadly  marred  by  de- 
cadent Spanish  taste ;  but  aside  from  a  few  quaint 
old  marble  tombs,  it  had  little  to  show. 

Much  more  attractive  was  the  Casa  de  Conchas, 
which  we  came  upon  unexpectedly  farther  up  the 
street,  after  a  mad  dash  through  the  shower.  We 
turned  into  it  for  shelter,  literally  carrying  it  at  the 
point  of  our  umbrellas,  and  overwhelming  the  man 
at  the  gate,  —  who  turned  out  to  be  no  more  than 


CASA  DE  CONCHAS,   SALAMANCA 


SALAMANCA  321 

a  peaceable  mason  in  search  of  more  mortar.  The 
house,  it  appeared,  was  in  process  of  restoration. 
Outwardly  it  needed  little,  for  its  walls  were  still 
covered  with  the  curious  carved  scallop-shells  of 
stone  which  give  it  its  name.  I  imagine  these  scal- 
lop-shells were  originally  placed  there  in  honor  of 
Santiago,  the  patron  saint  of  Spain,  for  they  are  his 
sacred  device.  The  house  itself  was  as  strong  as 
a  fort,  and,  aside  from  these  numberless  shells  and 
some  exceedingly  graceful  window  grills,  boasted 
no  external  adornment.  It  was  even  more  fascinat- 
ing within.  Its  immense  door  led  into  a  broad,  paved 
passage,  which  in  turn  gave  upon  a  spacious  patio, 
around  which  stood  the  great  house  in  a  lofty,  hol- 
low square.  The  surrounding  colonnade  was  most 
graceful,  and  a  magnificent  staircase  led  up  to  the 
upper  balcony,  the  roof  throughout  being  adorned 
with  ancient  carving.  There  were  no  tenants  at 
present  save  the  workmen,  for  the  marquis  who 
now  owns  it  was  at  the  moment  disporting  him- 
self in  Madrid,  and  the  interval  was  employed 
in  putting  the  structure  in  perfect  repair.  We  were 
free  to  wander  at  will  through  the  rooms,  —  up- 
stairs, downstairs,  and  in  the  lady's  chamber. 
Everywhere  was  the  evidence  of  past  greatness, 
chiefly  notable  in  the  colonnades  of  the  court  and 
in  the  blackened  wooden  ceilings. 

There  was  a  tremendous  structure  just  across 
the  narrow  street,  towering  above  the  Casa  de  Con- 
chas like  a  cliff  and  making  it  a  dark  and  dismal 


322  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

place  on  such  a  day.  This  was  the  seminar io  conci- 
liar,  —  too  huge  to  be  overlooked,  with  its  stupid 
baroque  church,  and  from  a  distance  far  from  un- 
pleasing  to  look  upon,  but  incredibly  bad  on  close 
inspection.  It  is  much  better  seen  from  the  outskirts 
of  the  town,  and  its  towers  are  a  notable  feature  of 
the  skyline ;  but  we  could  not  let  it  hold  us  longer 
from  the  cathedral,  now  near  at  hand.  We  made  for 
the  cathedral  hastily  in  an  interval  between  the 
showers,  as  did  most  of  the  populace,  who  seemed 
bent  on  attending  the  morning  mass. 

The  cathedral — meaning  thereby  the  "new"  ca- 
thedral—  is  another  of  those  stupendously  great 
churches  of  which  Spain  is  so  fond.  It  seemed  to 
us,  as  so  many  of  the  others  had  seemed,  grossly 
over-ornamented  to  outward  view.  Like  the  ba- 
roque church  of  the  seminary,  it  ia  much  better 
seen  from  a  distance,  and  yet  it  cannot  be  said  that 
even  at  close  range  it  is  not  a  good  example  of  the 
later  Gothic  as  it  flowered  in  Spain.  Admittedly 
it  was  the  prototype  of  the  cathedral  at  Segovia,  the 
architects  being  the  same  and  probably  employing 
in  their  later  work  the  same  fundamental  plans  as 
at  Salamanca.  As  usual,  this  building  required 
more  than  the  lifetime  of  any  one  man,  and  it  is 
said  to  have  been  two  hundred  years  in  reaching 
full  completion.  To-day  the  huge  detached  tower 
suffers  in  appearance  from  the  heavy  casing  of 
stone  which  was  put  around  it  by  cautious  hands 
just  after  the  Lisbon  earthquake;  and  the  entire 


SALAMANCA  323 

fabric  is  marred  by  the  fact  that  passing  generations 
have  left  on  its  walls  the  marks  of  the  strata  of  their 
varying  tastes.  As  a  result,  there  is  some  lack  of 
unity  in  the  conception  as  a  whole,  but  it  is  at  least 
consistent  in  being  over-adorned  throughout.  The 
doorways,  as  usual,  boast  the  inevitable  army  of 
statuettes,  although  many  of  these  have  disap- 
peared to  leave  behind  them  only  empty  niches  and 
brackets  —  and  tradition  says  the  saints  thus  por- 
trayed grew  weary  of  the  stupid  task  of  standing 
there,  and  vanished  one  by  one. 

The  ordinary  entrance  of  the  cathedral  is  not  by 
the  main  portals  of  the  facade,  but  by  a  smaller 
door  in  its  northern  side.  The  way  toward  this  we 
found  to  lie  across  a  great  platform  of  stone,  punctu- 
ated with  puddles.  Once  we  had  attained  the  door 
and  slipped  under  its  heavy  leathern  curtain,  the 
garishness  of  the  outside  of  the  church  was  amply 
atoned  for  by  the  loftiness  and  dignity  within. 
These  elements  even  triumphed  over  the  baroque 
atrocities  of  the  crossing  and  of  certain  of  the  chap- 
els, and  the  long  vistas  of  far-stretching  aisles  made 
up  in  a  measure  for  the  inevitable  intrusion  of  the 
choir.  Many  people  were  gathered  here,  as  befitted 
Holy  Week,  and  despite  the  gloom  of  the  day,  the 
general  effect  of  the  place  was  one  of  cheer  and  airi- 
ness, for  which  the  golden-brown  of  the  stone  was 
mainly  responsible. 

A  mercenary  sacristan  abandoned  his  labor  of 
building  an  uncommonly  ugly  Easter  pavilion  long 


324  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

enough  to  show  us  a  few  of  the  chapels  and  their 
treasures,  including  what  was  alleged  to  be  the  cruci- 
fix of  the  Cid.  But  he  speedily  relinquished  us  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  a  canon  who  was  about  to  set  out 
on  a  tour  of  the  church  with  a  small  army  of  visitors, 
and  returned  without  reluctance  to  his  hammering, 
of  which  it  seemed  he  was  not  a  little  proud.  We 
turned  our  steps  toward  the  "old"  cathedral  close 
at  hand. 

Unlike  other  ancient  churches,  the  older  cathedral 
of  Salamanca  has  been  allowed  to  remain  under 
the  shadow  of  the  more  modern  church,  instead  of 
being  superseded  on  the  identical  site.  And  despite 
a  general  flavor  of  mild  decay,  it  seems  strong 
enough  to  endure  for  many  generations  more.  Cer- 
tainly it  is  a  much  more  satisfactory  building  than 
the  new  cathedral,  and  especially  so  from  outside, 
where  one  gets  a  difficult  glance  at  the  lantern  — 
the  cupola  that  served  as  a  suggestion  for  the  cen- 
tral tower  of  Trinity  in  Boston.  It  is  a  pity  that 
this  feature  is  so  very  hard  to  see  satisfactorily,  for 
it  is  one  of  the  most  charming  bits  of  architecture 
in  Spain.  Furthermore,  it  looks  rather  frail,  and 
liable  some  day  to  collapse,  —  which  a  kindly  fate 
forefend ! 

It  was  this  older  church  that  was  founded  by 
the  valiant  and  militant  prelate,  Bishop  Geronimo, 
confessor  of  the  Cid  and  steadfast  companion  of  his 
campaigns.  Indeed,  it  was  Geronimo  who  sup- 
ported the  lifeless  corpse  of  his  hero  when  it  took 


SALAMANCA  325 

its  last  ghastly  ride,  on  horseback  and  in  full  pan- 
oply of  war,  out  of  the  gates  of  Valencia.  If  we  may 
believe  the  reports,  time  has  dealt  leniently  with 
Geronimo's  buried  clay ;  for  when  his  tomb  in  Sala- 
manca was  opened,  like  that  of  Charles  V,  after 
many  years  of  sepulture,  the  body  was  found  quite 
uncorrupted,  save  for  the  tip  of  its  nose,  and,  like 
that  of  Saint  Mark  at  Venice,  emitted  a  most  de- 
licious odor ! 

The  empty  nave  of  the  older  cathedral  was  mas- 
sive and  simple,  and  the  walls  of  the  structure  were 
said  to  be  ten  feet  in  thickness,  so  that  one  may 
readily  calculate  its  chances  of  standing.  On  the 
whole,  the  more  ancient  church  had  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of  in  comparison  with  its  successor,  with 
all  its  bedizened  grandeur.  It  disappointed  us  only 
in  its  mouldy  cloisters,  the  arches  of  which  had 
been  filled  with  windows  and  shutters  of  wood. 
Apart  from  these,  it  was  delightfully  ancient  and 
quaint,  and  among  the  chapels  they  showed  us  was 
one  in  which,  on  stated  occasions,  is  still  celebrated 
the  Mozarabic  rite. 

Just  across  the  paved  platform  outside  the  ca- 
thedral there  was  visible  a  rather  imposing  build- 
ing which  we  mistook  at  first  for  the  celebrated 
university,  and  we  betook  ourselves  to  it  after  the 
cathedral  had  grown  alike  too  chilly  and  too  im- 
pressive longer  to  be  endured  at  that  moment.  It 
inclosed  a  vast  quadrangle,  and  we  were  just  be- 
ginning to  become  enthusiastic  over  it  and  people 


326  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

its  grand  staircases  with  thousands  of  thronging 
students,  when  we  discovered  that  it  was  not  a 
college  at  all,  —  at  least  no  longer,  • —  but  a  sort 
of  military  office.  The  real  university  which  gave 
Salamanca  its  ancient  celebrity  and  which  is  used 
as  a  college  still,  was  quite  another  building,  directly 
opposite  the  cathedral  itself.  Even  then,  however, 
its  entrance  was  difficult  to  find,  once  we  had  dis- 
covered its  rear  windows ;  but  after  threading  sev- 
eral winding  streets  in  that  vicinity  we  came  upon 
its  ornate  main  portal,  facing  a  very  narrow  but 
lengthy  and  secluded  square.  Surely  nobody  would 
ever  have  taken  it  for  a  world-famous  university. 
Its  broad  gate  was  surmounted  by  a  much  over- 
ornamented  sandstone  structure,  carved  with  nu- 
merous reliefs,  grotesque  and  otherwise,  including 
the  inevitable  escutcheons,  busts  of  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella,  various  popes  and  other  persons,  some  al- 
most half-length,  and  giving  evidence  of  a  curious 
attempt  to  correct  the  effects  of  diminishing  perspec- 
tive by  increasing  the  sizes  of  the  statues  as  the 
building  rose.  Taken  as  a  whole,  the  gateway  was 
rather  rich  and  imposing,  —  but  I  incline  to  remain 
convinced  that  it  was  altogether  too  rich.  One 
could  not  question,  however,  that  it  afforded  a  most 
striking  end  for  the  tiny  square,  which  had  for  its 
only  other  adornment  a  statue  of  Fray  (Brother) 
Luis  de  Leon,  poet  and  erstwhile  professor  of  the- 
ology in  the  university. 

Certain  now  of  our  ground,  we  entered  the  court- 


SALAMANCA  327 

yard  of  the  ancient  college  which  once  enrolled  as 
many  as  ten  thousand  students  at  a  single  term. 
It  seemed  an  incredibly  small  space  for  harboring 
such  a  multitude  of  scholars,  but  of  course  the  ori- 
ginal university  must  have  occupied  many  other 
buildings,  and  the  students  naturally  were  never  all 
present  at  any  one  time,  but  came  to  their  lectures, 
no  doubt,  with  that  easy  nonchalance  still  character- 
istic of  college  students  everywhere.  Within  there 
was  a  broad  court  surrounded  by  a  simple  cloister, 
all  silent  and  deserted  save  for  an  intelligent  janitor 
who  came  jangling  his  keys  and  anxious  to  show  us 
all  he  could.  He  led  us  to  various  old  rooms,  but 
to  our  unutterable  disappointment  the  library  was 
inexorably  closed.  It  was  a  sort  of  Holy  Week 
recess,  we  were  told,  and  the  faculty  were  not  in 
residence  at  that  moment,  so  that  no  proper  permis- 
sion was  to  be  obtained.  At  other  times,  I  believe, 
properly  accredited  persons  are  freely  admitted  to 
see  the  treasures  housed  there ;  but  for  us  it  was  not 
to  be,  although  we  used  every  available  argument, 
begged,  pleaded,  hinted  at  the  silver  key,  and 
claimed  kinship  with  every  erudite  professor  in  the 
well-known  universities  of  the  world. 

But  if  we  could  not  see  the  books,  we  did  at  least 
manage  to  see  the  chapel,  —  a  very  ordinary  one 
of  a  size  which  at  once  dispelled  the  notion  that  ten 
thousand  students  were  ever  forced  to  attend  it 
regularly  in  a  body.  Such  a  crowd  would  probably 
far  overtax  the  cathedral  itself.  Indeed,  the  chapel, 


328  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

as  well  as  the  other  rooms  we  were  allowed  to  see, 
seemed  much  better  suited  to  the  few  hundred  stu- 
dents who  now  matriculate  there.  The  apartment 
once  used  as  a  lecture  room  by  Fray  Luis  de  Leon 
remained  as  it  was  in  his  own  distant  day,  —  a  dark 
and  gloomy  cave  of  a  room,  with  a  lofty  black  pul- 
pit and  rows  of  hideously  uncomfortable  benches, 
carved,  of  course,  with  innumerable  names.  It  is 
quite  as  it  was  in  Fray  Luis's  time,  and  one  might 
easily  imagine  it  filled  with  gay  young  candidates 
for  the  bachelor's  degree,  eager  "grinds,"  poets  in 
embryo,  roistering  blades,  fanatic  theologians,  — 
cavaliers  all.  They  also  showed  us  a  second  room, 
almost  as  ancient,  where  it  was  said  the  incoming 
classes  were  always  received  by  the  president, — 
and  doubtless  he  says  to  them  the  same  flattering 
things  in  Spanish  that  our  New  England  college 
presidents  say  in  English  to  their  young  men  every 
autumn. 

From  being  one  of  the  best  and  most  celebrated 
universities  in  the  world,  Salamanca  has  become 
one  of  the  oldest  and  poorest.  The  kind  of  educa- 
tion that  is  obtained  there  now  is  very  different 
from  what  it  was  in  days  when  it  boasted  the  finest 
department  of  mathematics  in  the  world,  and  very 
nearly  the  ablest  classical  faculty.  The  works  of 
Copernicus  are  no  longer  used  as  its  text-books. 
Crowds  of  enthusiastic  students  no  longer  bear 
famous  lecturers  on  their  shoulders  to  the  rostrum, 
as  of  old  they  bore  Peter  Martyr.  Indeed,  it  is  a 


SALAMANCA  329 

problem  to  say  just  what  worth  one  would  attach 
to  a  degree  from  Salamanca  to-day;  but  it  is  cer- 
tain that  those  who  obtain  it  must  undergo  a  strug- 
gle such  as  would  put  the  poorest  student  of  a  New 
England  college  to  blush.  Richard  Hutton  relates 
that  the  "more  fortunate"  students  live  on  about 
five  pesetas  a  day,  —  which  is  a  trifle  less  than  a 
dollar.  Think  of  that,  ye  gilded  and  luxurious  sons 
of  Harvard  and  Yale !  One  dollar  a  day  is  the  riot- 
ous living  of  the  wealthy  student  of  old  Salamanca ! 
The  students  in  moderate  circumstances  spend 
from  one  peseta  a  day  to  five  or  ten  pesetas  a 
month.  The  latter,  however,  are  the  poorest,  and 
commonly  bring  a  scanty  store  of  provender  from 
home  to  eke  out  what  their  little  means  can  buy. 
Surely  such  hardship  merits  something  better  than 
a  "common  school"  education,  —  and  yet  that  is 
said  to  be  what  they  receive  at  best.  Nevertheless, 
Salamanca  has  her  honor  roll  of  famous  alumni, 
and  in  her  prime  she  sent  out  such  sons  as  Cer- 
vantes, Ignatius  Loyola,  Ximenes,  and  Calderon. 
Who  knows  what  mute  inglorious  poets  and  states- 
men she  may  be  rearing  to-day? 

I  referred  some  time  ago  to  the  college  of  the 
Noble  Irish,  the  other  great  educational  institution 
of  the  city  of  venerable  age,  dating  as  it  does  to  the 
days  of  Philip  II.  It  has  the  advantage  over  the 
greater  university  to-day  in  being  still  in  full  vigor, 
and  we  found  the  exploration  of  it  one  of  the  most 
agreeable  of  our  Salamantine  memories.  According 


330  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

to  all  accounts  the  Most  Catholic  Philip  founded  it 
to  spite  Queen  Elizabeth  of  England,  by  offering 
an  institute  for  the  teaching  of  her  Irish  subjects 
the  elements  of  the  Catholic  faith.  It  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  find,  standing  as  it  did  on  a  hill  toward  the 
western  walls  of  the  city,  a  handsome  old  building 
which  inclosed  a  spacious  quadrangle  with  an  ex- 
tremely graceful  colonnade.  A  trim  Irish  priest  was 
taking  the  air  in  the  higher  cloister,  and  in  the 
lower  court  two  gray-eyed  lads  were  walking  to  and 
fro.  They  were  delighted  to  find  somebody  from 
outside  who  could  speak  English,  and  told  of  their 
life  in  the  ancient  Spanish  city  with  much  avidity. 
Six  years,  they  said,  was  the  regular  course,  and  the 
men  undertaking  it  seldom  went  home  during  that 
time.  The  total  number  of  students  at  the  mo- 
ment was  twenty-four.  Did  they  like  it?  Oh,  yes ; 
although  it  grew  somewhat  monotonous.  And  it  is 
probable  that  they  were  very  well  aware  that  much 
better  instruction  could  have  been  had  at  home 
without  so  much  trouble  and  inconvenience.  Nev- 
ertheless, I  cannot  but  feel  that  six  years  of  study 
in  Salamanca,  with  all  the  rich  traditions  of  that 
mediaeval  city  in  the  very  atmosphere,  is  an  ad- 
mirable thing.  Were  I  an  Irishman  and  a  Catholic, 
I  know  I  should  be  made  a  better  one  by  half  a 
dozen  years  spent  in  that  cloistered  abode,  - 
founded  by  a  fanatical  monarch  with  the  laudable 
intention  of  making  an  English  queen  furiously 
angry! 


SALAMANCA  331 

I  think  I  never  was  more  delighted  to  meet  with 
two  exiles  from  Erin.  Those  two  serious,  clear-eyed 
novices  with  their  trailing  black  robes  and  neat  caps 
were  an  oasis  in  a  desert.  We  had  been  for  some 
time  quite  out  of  the  zone  of  English  travel,  and 
had  been  thrown  entirely  on  our  Spanish,  so  that 
the  sound  of  the  brogue,  be  it  never  so  slightly 
marked,  was  music  to  our  ears.  Nor  was  it  any  the 
less  pleasant  to  stray  into  the  chapel  of  the  semi- 
nary and  find  inscribed  in  the  fly-leaves  of  the  books 
and  breviaries  such  honest  names  as  John  Larkin, 
written  in  a  good,  straightforward  Irish  hand. 

On  returning  to  the  hotel  we  discovered  its  land- 
lord, the  worthy  Senor  Don  Jose,  in  a  state  of  vio- 
lent perturbation,  he  having  received  a  letter  in 
English  of  which  he  was  able  to  understand  not 
one  word.  He  appealed  to  us,  and  in  halting  phrase 
we  made  known  to  him  the  unwelcome  news  that  a 
tourist  party  of  large  size,  for  which  accommodations 
had  been  duly  reserved,  was  not  coming  at  all.  How 
we  managed  to  convey  this  intelligence  to  him  I 
cannot  understand,  for  I  am  positive  that  I  could 
not  by  any  possibility  do  it  to-day.  But  he  under- 
stood, and  despite  the  disheartening  character  of 
the  message,  he  was  grateful  to  a  degree.  From 
that  moment  we  became  his  honored  guests,  and 
he  hovered  near  us  at  each  successive  meal  to  make 
sure  his  boys  left  no  want  unsupplied.  Not  that 
they  needed  overseeing,  for  a  more  obliging  set  of 
young  men  never  officered  a  hotel. 


332  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

But  with  all  Don  Jos6's  good  nature,  he  could  not 
promise  to  give  us  better  weather,  and  we  spent  a 
long  afternoon  in  his  stuffy  writing-room.  Con- 
trasted with  the  bleakness  of  the  outer  air  its  at- 
mosphere was  geniality  itself,  and  we  discovered 
after  a  little  what  had  produced  this  mysterious 
warmth.  It  was  a  brasero,  snugly  hidden  in  the 
bottom  shelf  of  the  writing-table,  and  shut  in  by 
the  trailing  red  tablecloth.  This  naturally  kept 
the  heat  from  straying  too  freely  about  the  room, 
but  it  certainly  made  it  very  warm  and  comfort- 
able for  one's  feet  and  knees.  Also  it  afforded  a 
cosy  resting-place  for  the  family  cat,  a  beast  that 
in  Spain  is  a  sort  of  chartered  libertine,  making  free 
with  every  warm  spot  from  the  best  bed  to  the  top 
of  the  kitchen  stove.  Many  a  time  in  Madrid  I 
had  sought  the  servants  in  the  morning  only  to 
find  them  making  chocolate  under  the  very  nose 
of  a  purring  Maltese  puss  that  was  basking  on  the 
warm  tiles  of  the  cooking  range ! 

It  was  only  after  some  little  stay  in  Salamanca 
that  I  began  to  make  inquiries  about  the  means  of 
departure.  There  was  in  the  time-table  a  mixed 
train  that  left  about  noon  for  the  north,  and  I  an- 
nounced to  the  concierge  that  I  thought  we  should 
take  it  on  the  morrow.  He  said  I  could  not ;  it  did 
not  "circulate." 

"  But  see.  Here  it  is  in  my  time-table." 

"  Ah,  yes,  senor.  In  the  time-table.  But  see  also 
here  in  my  own  time-table,  which  is  a  better  one 


SALAMANCA  333 

than  yours.  Note  this  symbol  of  reference,  which 
is  duly  explained  on  page  122  —  here,  —  'This 
mixed  train  will  circulate  on  Tuesdays  and  Sun- 
days only ! ' 

And  this  was  neither  day!  It  was  apparent 
that  we  were  in  for  yet  another  day  of  Salamanca, 
and  that  when  we  did  leave  it.  must  be  in  the  dead 
of  night,  with  two  hours  to  wait  in  the  fonda  at 
Medina  del  Campo !  It  was  not  that  we  wished  to 
leave  Salamanca,  for  we  had  come  to  love  her 
dearly  despite  her  mists  and  rain;  but  with  that 
perversity  of  nature  that  manifests  itself  when  one 
is  arbitrarily  precluded  from  following  any  course 
of  conduct,  we  inclined  to  take  this  news  but  ill.  It 
was,  I  suppose,  a  sentiment  of  restlessness  like  that 
in  which  Kipling's  tramp  royal  hastens  to  turn  the 
leaves  of  his  life's  book,  for 

Pretty  quick  it  seems  that  you  will  die 
Unless  you  get  the  page  you  're  readin'  done 
And  turn  another,  —  likely  not  so  good,  — 
But  what  you  're  after  is  to  turn  them  all ! 

At  the  moment  nothing  seemed  more  desirable 
than  to  leave  Salamanca  at  once,  —  and  we  could 
not  go.  Secretly,  however,  I  imagine  we  were  all 
delighted.  It  meant  a  tedious  night  ride  and  an 
arrival  at  Burgos  at  an  unearthly  hour ;  but  in  com- 
pensation it  gave  us  a  Holy  Thursday  in  Salamanca, 
which  we  should  otherwise  have  missed,  and  with- 
out preventing  our  attendance  at  the  processions 
of  Good  Friday  in  the  more  northern  city.  So  mote 


334  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

it  be !  And  we  betook  ourselves  with  chastened 
minds  to  our  tall  couches  and  caloriferos. 

Early  on  the  morrow,  which  dawned  bright  and 
clear,  there  came  a  tapping  at  our  chamber  doors, 
and  the  landlady,  who  spoke  French,  was  discov- 
ered, anxiously  inquisitive,  without.  She  wished 
to  know  if  we  desired  any  meat  to  eat  that  day. 
"Monsieur  knows  that,  according  to  a  Spanish 
custom,  all  the  world  to-day  eats  fish.  To-morrow 
it  will  be  the  same  —  all  eat  fish.  If  Monsieur 
wishes  meat,  he  will  kindly  command  it  now,  that 
we  may  go  to  the  market  and  buy.  Otherwise  we 
shall  know  that  Monsieur  will  eat  as  the  others  — 
fish ! "  After  some  debate  we  compromised.  For 
luncheon  we  would  cheerfully  eat  fish  with  all  the 
world.  For  the  rest,  perhaps  a  single  morsel  of 
meat  —  if  Madame  would  be  so  kind —  at  dinner? 
Madame  vanished,  all  smiles.  We  were,  after  all, 
but  partial  heretics ! 

Breakfast  on  Holy  Thursday  presented  no  new 
problem,  of  course.  There  was  the  usual  thick 
paste  of  chocolate,  and,  alas,  nothing  but  leche  de 
cobra  1  The  waiter  was  desolated,  and  rushed  about 
to  see  if  he  could  locate  a  cow.  There  was  none ; 
so  we  drank  goat's  milk,  likewise  with  all  the  world. 
Also  there  were  the  usual  dry,  white  sugar-cakes,  — 
azucarillos,  —  which  I  imagine  are  meant  to  be 
soaked  and  eaten.  These  we  had  never  been  able 
to  manage  successfully,  and  had  decided  always  to 
ignore.  To  attempt  the  eating  of  one  in  its  dry 


SALAMANCA  335 

state  meant  to  powder  the  eater  and  his  immedi- 
ate vicinity  with  a  fine  white  dust,  and  the  taste 
was  just  short  of  being  sweet.  Aside  from  these,  a 
few  rolls  completed  the  meal.  Passion  Week  could 
hardly  ask  less. 

Although  all  the  people  went  to  church  that 
morning,  the  cathedral  hardly  showed  their  pre- 
sence, and  the  vast  nave  was  apparently  able  to  hold 
ten  times  the  number  that  were  there.  As  always 
in  the  season  of  the  Passion,  there  was  no  music 
at  all,  and  we  remained  only  long  enough  to  see 
the  blessing  of  the  sacred  chrism,  —  always  an 
interesting  bit  of  churchly  ceremony,  and  doubly 
so  in  this  instance  because  of  the  evident  self-con- 
sciousness of  those  who  performed  it.  They  were 
ill  at  ease,  and  this  feeling  was  by  no  means  de- 
creased by  the  open  derision  of  the  fat  under- 
prelate  in  charge. 

We  spent  the  morning,  I  remember,  in  searching 
out  the  great  bridge  over  the  yellow  river,  —  a 
thing  we  had  omitted  to  do  before  because  of  the 
rain.  It  was  but  a  step  from  the  cathedral,  but  a 
steep  and  slimy  step,  —  the  streets,  covered  with 
a  film  of  mud,  dropping  sharply  to  the  base  of  the 
bluffs  on  which  the  city  stands.  Swollen  by  the 
rains,  the  Tormes  proved  itself  no  mean  river ;  and 
if  it  was  shallow  it  made  up  by  being  impressively 
broad.  So  broad  was  it,  indeed,  that  the  bridge  re- 
quired an  astonishing  number  of  arches,  and  their 
number  may  be  calculated  from  the  guidebook's 


336  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

statement  that  "the  fifteen  nearest  the  city  belong 
to  the  original  structure,  or  Roman  date ;  the  other 
twelve  date  from  the  reign  of  Philip  IV."  It  was 
altogether  such  a  bridge  as  that  we  had  seen  at 
Cordova,  similar  both  in  color  and  construction, 
but  much  longer  and  rather  more  impressive  in 
consequence.  From  its  farther  end  was  to  be  had 
a  fine  view  of  Salamanca,  —  perhaps  the  best  gen- 
eral view,  —  with  the  cathedrals,  new  and  old, 
forming  the  most  conspicuous  feature. 

Also  we  sought  out  the  highly  interesting  church 
of  Santo  Domingo,  or  San  Esteban,  —  for  the  two 
names  are  apparently  wedded  and  apply  to  the 
church  and  its  adjacent  monastery  with  almost 
equal  force.  We  had  something  of  a  hunt  for  it,  and 
even  when  we  had  located  it  accurately,  our  faith 
in  the  fact  was  shaken  by  the  failure  of  an  aged 
peasant  to  be  absolutely  sure  of  the  name  of  the 
church.  It  happened  to  be  closed  at  the  moment, 
as  so  many  Spanish  churches  are  apt  to  be  at  mid- 
day; but  a  passing  boy,  scenting  centimes  from 
afar,  pulled  noisily  at  a  bell  in  the  portico  and 
aroused  a  monkish  brother  within ;  and  it  was  he 
who  led  us  by  devious  turnings  through  the  clois- 
ters to  the  heart  of  the  church.  It  possessed  a  fine 
interior,  much  finer  than  its  overwrought  plater- 
esque  exterior  would  have  indicated;  and  despite 
the  baroque  altar  it  proved  a  pleasant  place,  with 
an  admirable  example  of  the  raised  choir  spanning 
the  lower  end  of  the  nave.  But  it  was  of  secondary 


SALAMANCA  337 

interest  in  itself  to  the  cloistered  quadrangles  close 
by,  from  certain  parts  of  which  we  were  excluded 
because  of  the  ladies.  We  managed  to  gain  admis- 
sion to  a  quaint  art  gallery,  however,  which  occu- 
pied an  upper  cloister  well  glazed  from  the  weather, 
but  which  proved  to  be  far  less  interesting  than  the 
Titanic  stone  staircases  that  led  up  to  it.  I  have 
little  definite  recollection  of  the  pictures,  save  that 
they  were  mainly  rude,  and  religious  in  tone,  pos- 
sessing no  great  artistic  merit.  But  there  were 
among  them  one  or  two  astonishingly  worldly  paint- 
ings, representing  wandering  minstrels  with  guitars 
and  pipes,  curiously  out  of  place  in  such  an  assem- 
blage of  saints  and  martyrs. 

It  was  in  this  monastery,  according  to  the  chroni- 
cles, that  Columbus  received  his  chief  encourage- 
ment to  embark  on  his  venturesome  voyages.  The 
doctors  of  the  neighboring  university  would  have 
none  of  him  or  his  schemes,  and  branded  the  latter 
as  dangerously  heretical.  But  the  brotherhood  of 
Dominicans,  whose  habitation  this  cloister  was,  led 
by  so  good  a  Catholic  as  the  Inquisitor  Diego  de 
Deza,  overlooked  the  heresy  and  lent  to  the  world- 
seeking  Genoese  the  aid  and  comfort  which  heart- 
ened him  to  ask  the  patronage  of  the  Catholic  Kings. 
In  consequence,  the  story  prevails  that  Columbus 
brought  back  with  him  the  gold  which  now  decks 
the  high  altar;  but  this  is  such  a  common  tale  in 
Spain  that  it  is  presumably  quite  untrue  in  any  case. 

While  we  were  inspecting  the  quaint  art  collec- 


338  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

tion,  the  frayles,  robed  in  their  brown  cowls,  began 
to  clatter  past  us  on  their  way  to  service  in  the  high 
choir,  and  many  a  look  of  frowning  distrust  was  cast 
at  the  near  presence  of  women.  Presently  one  bro- 
ther detached  himself  from  the  rest  and  approached 
us,  —  and  we  beat  a  precipitate  retreat  down  that 
giant  staircase,  fearful  lest  he  tell  us  that  the  spot 
whereon  we  were  standing  was  holy  ground.  He 
followed  us  for  a  considerable  distance,  and  then, 
sighting  another  brown  brother,  he  called  to  him, 
"  Fray  Martin !  Show  the  senoras  out !"  We  stood 
not  upon  the  order  of  our  going,  but  went  at  once, 
although  at  no  time  had  we  ventured  into  the  for- 
bidden precincts. 

Even  on  this  more  pleasant  day  there  came  sev- 
eral showers,  one  of  which  prisoned  us  for  nearly 
an  hour  in  a  peasant's  house  by  the  side  of  a  narrow 
back  street.  Nobody  could  have  been  more  courte- 
ous than  the  woman  who  welcomed  us  there,  and 
we  sat  for  a  long  time  in  her  broad  stone-flagged 
vestibule,  an  object  of  huge  interest  to  a  multitude 
of  curious-eyed  children.  For  a  while  the  alley  out- 
side ran  rivers  of  water,  and  when  the  storm  abated 
we  emerged  only  to  involve  ourselves  with  a  most 
unusual  and  picturesque  procession,  —  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  twelve  bedesmen,  clean-shaven 
old  men  attired  in  decent  black,  who  were  on  their 
way  to  have  their  feet  laved  by  the  venerable  arch- 
bishop. This  symbolic  foot-washing,  which  of  course 
commemorates  the  washing  of  the  feet  of  the  dis- 


SALAMANCA  339 

ciples  by  Jesus  Christ,  is  a  well-known  custom  of 
Maundy  Thursday  everywhere ;  but  in  Salamanca 
there  is  nothing  figurative  or  imaginary  about  it. 
The  twelve  old  men  with  their  neat  bibs  and  aprons 
were  marched  over  to  the  cathedral  behind  His 
Grace,  —  a  benevolent  old  prelate  he  was,  —  led 
to  the  raised  seats  provided  for  them  beside  the 
screen  of  the  choir,  and  made  to  remove  their  shoes 
and  hose.  A  silver  basin  and  graceful  ewer  were 
brought  by  priestly  attendants,  and  towels  were 
borne  by  others, — whereat  the  washing  was  accom- 
plished with  extraordinary  dispatch,  while  all  Sala- 
manca looked  on  in  sober  reverence,  seeing  no  doubt 
in  their  spiritual  pastor  and  the  ancient  bedesmen 
Jesus  and  his  followers  in  their  own  proper  persons ! 
Such  is  the  power  of  religious  imagery  in  Spain. 
But  as  soon  as  it  was  over,  the  crowd  fell  a-chatting 
again,  and  the  children  who  raced  in  and  out  among 
the  pillars  became  noisier  than  ever. 

I  cannot  forbear  to  mention  one  other  incom- 
parable thing  we  sought  out  in  Salamanca,  —  a 
thing  which  was  not  easy  to  find,  but  which  re- 
paid the  effort  of  the  finding  a  hundred  fold,  - 
the  "Conception,"  painted  by  the  faithful  Ribera, 
which  hangs  in  the  rather  obscure  church  of  the 
Augustinas  Recoletas.  The  picture,  hung  high 
above  an  altar,  was  covered  with  the  usual  purple 
veil,  and  in  consequence  we  despaired  of  seeing  it, 
for  the  veil  is  ordinarily  quite  too  sacred  to  be 
raised  or  removed  before  Easter  day.  Happily  the 


340  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

sacristan  was  lenient  and  susceptible  to  inducement, 
and  after  some  show  of  protest  he  consented  to  lift 
the  curtain  —  the  church  being  empty  save  for  our- 
selves —  and  revealed  to  us  one  of  the  most  satis- 
factory paintings  of  this  sacred  mystery  that  I  have 
ever  beheld.  The  picture  cannot  be  adequately  de- 
scribed. It  must  be  seen  in  order  to  gain  a  proper 
idea  of  the  exquisite  face  and  figure  of  the  Virgin, 
whose  whole  attitude  and  expression  betoken  a 
most  vividly  sanctified  joy.  Mr.  Havelock  Ellis,  in 
considering  Ribera's  work,  esteems  this  "the 
crowning  proof  of  Ribera's  artistic  strength  and 
his  power  of  rendering  ecstatic  emotion.  .  .  .The 
fine  blending  of  modesty  and  pride  in  the  Virgin's 
face  and  erect  figure  is  here  triumphantly  attained  ; 
in  one  effort  Ribera  has  not  merely  succeeded 
where  Murillo  after  him  so  often  lavished  his  labor 
in  vain,  but  he  challenges  comparison  with  Titian."1 
This  is  extraordinary  praise,  surely,  but  no  one 
who  has  seen  the  "  Conception  "  in  the  convent  of 
the  Augustinas  Recoletas  of  Salamanca  will  think 
of  questioning  its  justice. 

It  would  be  futile  to  attempt  any  detailed  de- 
scription of  the  multitude  of  architectural  charms 
that  crowd  the  byways  of  the  city.  The  temptation 
is  to  catalogue  them,  but  it  would  after  all  be  but 
a  catalogue.  I  shall  refrain,  but  the  omission  seri- 
ously impairs  the  success  of  expressing  the  elusive 
abstract  impression  the  city  left  upon  our  minds  as 

1  The  Soul  of  Spain,  pp.  123,  124. 


SALAMANCA  341 

the  resultant  of  all  its  forces.  We  were  conscious 
then,  and  are  more  conscious  now,  of  a  certain 
magic  charm  which  lingers  in  the  nooks  and  cran- 
nies of  this  ancient  seat  of  learning.  Its  very  name 
is  a  potent  spell.  Salamanca  is  no  city  of  many 
saints,  like  Avila.  It  has  little  or  no  Moorish  past. 
It  does  not  at  every  turn  remind  you  of  the  glorious 
age  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella.  Rather  is  it  a  splen- 
did old  university  town,  redolent  of  the  ancient  cul- 
ture, the  site  of  a  college  to  which  all  the  world  once 
gladly  sent  its  sons,  and  a  city  which  seemed  to 
the  worthy  Peter  Martyr  fit  to  be  called  a  "New 
Athens."  Let  Salamanca  be  never  so  difficult  of 
approach,  and  never  so  difficult  to  leave,  she  is  still 
and  forever  one  of  the  finest  cities  of  old  Spain. 

We  left  her  finally  with  an  unfeigned  regret,  in 
the  stillness  of  a  beautiful  moonlit  night.  The  plains 
stretched  far  and  dim  under  the  brilliant  sky,  and 
the  groves  of  trees  along  the  way  gained  a  new 
beauty  as  we  sped  through  that  vast  and  silent 
country.  The  white  station  buildings  were  ghostly 
in  the  moonlight,  and  the  only  sound  abroad  in  the 
night  was  the  shrill  piping  of  our  engine's  whistle. 
The  wind  was  asleep,  and  not  one  cloud  was  visible 
in  all  that  luminous  firmament,  which  had  so  lately 
wept. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BURGOS  AND  THE  CID 

Two  midnight  hours  at  Medina  del  Campo  may 
be  relied  upon  to  afford  a  somewhat  weird 
experience.  There  is  a  sense  of  depression  bred  by 
the  silent  and  gloomy  caverns  of  the  vast  station, 
which  even  the  porcelain  stove  of  the  fonda  will 
not  entirely  relieve.  There  are  but  few  people 
about,  and  these  are  invariably  sleepy  and  prob- 
ably morose.  In  the  waiting-rooms  the  lofty  black 
benches  may  be  depended  upon  to  shelter  a  scat- 
tered squad  of  snoring  porters.  Such,  at  any  rate, 
we  found  the  circumstances  of  our  stay  in  the  full 
tide  of  a  career  toward  Visigothic  Burgos. 

The  night  express  stole  into  the  station  almost 
unperceived,  so  silently  did  it  come.  It  consisted 
of  nothing  but  sleeping-cars,  and  the  cost  of  trav- 
eling by  these  conveyances  in  Spain  is  always  enor- 
mous; in  fact,  it  seems  to  make  no  difference 
whether  you  are  going  five  miles  or  five  hundred. 
This  I  elicited  from  a  sleepy  mozo  on  the  platform, 
when,  in  a  moment  of  extravagance,  I  inquired  the 
cost  of  a  "supplemento"  for  passage  on  the  train 
de  luxe. 

"  Fifty  pesetas,  senor." 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  343 

"  Madre  de  dios!  Fifty  pesetas?  From  here  to 
Burgos?" 

"Si,  sefior.   It  is  the  truth." 

"  But  if  it  costs  fifty  pesetas  to  go  only  to  Burgos, 
what  does  it  cost  to  go  from  Madrid  through  to 
Irun?" 

"The  same,  sefior." 

We  concluded  to  permit  the  "rapide"  to  steal 
silently  away  without  us,  which  presently  it  did. 
After  all,  it  would  only  have  landed  us  in  Burgos 
at  a  more  unearthly  hour  than  the  regular  express 
which  was  following  just  behind,  and  the  privilege 
of  being  turned  out  on  the  bleak  northern  world  at 
half-past  four  was  hardly  worth  paying  ten  dollars 
apiece  to  obtain.  So  we  returned  to  that  tall  pillar 
of  a  stove  in  the  fonda,  drank  more  coffee,  and 
snuggled  disconsolately  around  the  fire  for  yet  an- 
other hour. 

I  have  never  regretted  that  we  waited  and  did 
not  take  the  * '  rapide.  * '  The  regular  express  was  com- 
fortable, clean,  and  roomy,  brilliant  with  electric 
lights,  and  possessed  of  soft  cushions  which  one 
might  pull  up  over  the  arm  of  the  seat  and  make 
into  a  very  passable  bed  —  provided  the  train  were 
not  too  full.  We  managed  to  get  a  compartment 
to  ourselves,  turned  off  the  lights,  and  lay  down  to 
snatch  such  rest  as  we  might.  Wrapped  in  over- 
coats and  lulled  by  the  drumming  wheels,  it  was 
not  long  before  a  fitful  slumber  possessed  us,  —  a 
slumber  which  endured  for  what  seemed  barely  a 


344  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

quarter-hour  before  it  was  rudely  interrupted  by 
a  flood  of  light  and  a  series  of  energetic  thumps. 
Voices  outside  up  and  down  the  train  were  chanting 
"  Val-ya-do-leeeeth ! "  The  door  of  the  compart- 
ment stood  open.  A  ghostly  figure  was  pulling  out 
the  great  cylinder  of  iron  which  had  contained  hot 
water,  and  another,  equally  ghostly,  substituted  a 
second,  steaming  hot,  —  all  this  with  more  solicitude 
for  speed  than  silence,  which  accounted  for  the 
thumps.  Inspectors  were  loudly  hammering  the 
wheels  to  make  sure  they  would  ring  —  for  this 
antiquated  method  of  testing  the  tires  continues  in 
undiminished  favor  in  Spain,  and  the  sound  of  the 
metal  is  as  important  a  matter  in  car-wheels  as  it  is 
in  the  case  of  pesetas.  To  add  to  the  commotion, 
a  shrill-voiced  and  wakeful  lad  was  wandering  up 
and  down  the  platform  crying  his  doleful  "Quien 
quiere  agua?" 

This  was  all  we  were  destined  to  see  or  to  hear 
of  Valladolid,  once  the  capital  of  Castile,  the  home 
of  Gil  Bias,  the  scene  of  the  marriage  of  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella !  We  had  time  only  to  discover  that 
the  curious  name  of  the  city  was  a  direct  inheritance 
from  the  Moors,  as  had  so  often  been  the  case 
before,  it  being  the  natural  corruption  of  the  old 
name  Medinat-al-Walid  (Governorsville  —  or,  per- 
haps better,  Kingston!).  Then  the  compartment 
door  was  slammed  shut  again,  and  the  train  glided 
on  into  the  night. 

In  passing  by  Valladolid,  however,  we  missed 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  345 

nothing  of  value,  as  later  visits  to  that  city  have 
convinced  me.  It  is  probably  as  little  rewarding  as 
any  city  of  Spain  could  well  be,  despite  its  large 
place  in  the  country's  history.  Its  situation  is  flat, 
and  its  features  are  stale  and  unprofitable.  Com- 
mercially it  is  beginning  to  brighten  up  a  bit ;  but 
as  an  attraction  to  visitors  it  has  nothing  beyond 
its  fragmentary  and  austere  cathedral,  a  facade  or 
two  of  rather  good  plateresque,  and  some  court- 
yards which  one  must  seek  out  with  trouble  that 
comes  dangerously  near  overbalancing  their  worth. 
Added  to  this  lack  of  charm  is  the  unusual  poverty 
of  suitable  hotel  accommodation,  which  I  recall  quite 
as  vividly  as  the  cathedral.  On  the  whole,  Vallado- 
lid  is  not  a  spot  to  be  desired,1  and  had  we  realized 
it  then  we  should  have  watched  the  receding  lights 
with  far  less  regret. 

The  warmth  of  the  fresh  caloriferos  speedily  de- 
creased, and  the  chill  of  the  northern  highlands 
grew  more  and  more  insupportable  as  the  dawn 
drew  on.  What  little  sleep  we  obtained  was  not 

1  Travelers  making  the  long  and  tedious  journey  to  Leon  may 
be  tempted  as  I  was  to  make  Valladolid  a  stopping-place  for  a  night 
on  the  way.  It  is  probably  better  to  go  on  to  the  junction  of  Venta 
Bafios,  where  tolerable  accommodation  may  be  had  at  the  station 
fonda.  The  additional  advantage  is  that  of  avoiding  too  early  a  start 
on  the  following  day.  As  for  Leon,  while  I  have  treated  it  but  casu- 
ally in  this  book,  it  is  well  worth  putting  up  with  the  long  journey 
and  its  execrable  hotels,  by  reason  of  its  charming  cathedral  and 
the  picturesqueness  of  its  peasantry,  especially  on  the  Saturday 
market-day. 


346  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

productive  of  rest,  and  the  cold  soon  made  any  sleep 
at  all  impossible.  It  was  a  welcome  discovery  that 
daylight  was  beginning  to  brighten  the  east,  and 
more  welcome  still  to  discover  that  the  train  was 
speeding  down  a  river  valley  through  the  morning 
freshness  toward  two  spectral  Gothic  spires  which 
heralded  Burgos  and  its  grand  cathedral.  With  a 
prolonged  whistle  the  train  came  to  a  halt  in  a  splen- 
did station,  and  in  a  trice  we,  the  only  passengers  to 
alight,  were  bundled  into  a  capacious  omnibus,  to 
be  whirled  away,  with  chattering  teeth  and  rattling 
carriage-windows,  to  the  Hotel  del  Norte  y  de 
Londres. 

Nobody  was  yet  astir,  although  it  was  now  broad 
day.  The  twin  spires  of  the  mighty  church  reared 
themselves  airily  above  a  sea  of  intervening  roofs. 
A  fine  stone  bridge  over  the  waters  of  the  Arlanzon 
gave  a  fleeting  prospect  down  that  pleasant  stream. 
It  might  almost  have  been  France.  The  trees  were 
no  longer  bare,  and  the  waters  of  the  river  rippled 
along  with  pleasant  melody.  It  was  a  more  pro- 
mising introduction  than  we  had  hoped  for  to  the 
bleakness  of  Burgos,  with  her  climate  "  nine  months 
invierno,  three  months  inferno.*'  It  was  cold,  to 
be  sure,  and  if  the  wind  had  stirred  it  would  doubt- 
less have  been  bitter.  But  fortunately  the  breezes 
slumbered,  as  did  all  the  inhabitants,  and  the  sharp 
air,  after  the  exhausted,  thrice-breathed  air  of  the 
train,  seemed  bracing  and  delightful. 

But  the  hotel  of  the  North  and  of  London  was  a 


A  PEASANT  OF   LEON: 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  347 

sombre,  dingy,  depressing  place,  deserted  save  for  a 
sleepy  boy  who  dug  his  fists  into  his  eyes  and  con- 
ducted us  up  dark  stairways  and  through  mouldy 
halls  to  cold  and  unaired  rooms.  It  was  not  good,1 
but  it  was  the  best  that  Burgos  afforded ;  and  later 
we  were  told  that  the  prospect  of  speedily  moving 
to  another  site  was  all  that  prevented  the  furbish- 
ing up  of  this  chief  hotel  in  a  tourist-ridden  town. 
We  flung  up  the  curtains  and  opened  the  sash,  and 
in  a  few  moments  were  soundly  asleep,  grateful  for 
a  few  hours'  repose  after  that  nightmare  of  a  ride. 

Our  rooms  faced  on  an  open  square,  well  paved 
and  lined  with  tall  houses,  all  of  which  displayed 
narrow  balconies,  or  rather  bay-windows,  which 
were  glassed  like  conservatories.  Thus  does  Burgos 
eke  out  the  comforts  of  the  brasero  by  turning  to 
account  the  kindly  offices  of  the  sun.  The  effect  of 
this  arrangement  is  to  make  the  view  up  the  street 
much  like  a  vista  between  rows  of  vertical  green- 
houses, and  in  fact  most  of  the  casements  were  gay 
with  plants  and  trailing  vines. 

Our  first  casual  glance  through  the  main  thor- 
oughfares and  along  the  river  front  of  Burgos  had 
created  the  impression  that  the  town  was  rather 
a  thriving  and  cleanly  one.  Later  acquaintance, 
however,  with  certain  back  streets  and  byways  led 
us  to  abandon  that  idea,  for  some  of  them  were 
quite  as  unkempt  and  dirty  as  any  Sicilian  slum.  It 

1  This  hotel,  it  is  fair  to  say,  has  since  been  moved  to  a  new  site, 
and  is  now  one  of  the  most  up  to  date  in  Spain,  to  all  appearances. 


348  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

was  the  main  street  and  the  well-shaded  paseos  along 
the  stream  that  produced  the  Pharisaical  appear- 
ance of  neatness,  and  if  one  does  not  probe  Burgos 
too  deeply,  it  will  be  found  a  very  attractive  place, 
even  apart  from  its  cathedral,  which  is  the  one 
great  claim  of  the  modern  town  to  celebrity. 

As  to  the  cathedral,  opinions  differ  sadly  in  ac- 
cording it  rank  among  the  world's  great  Gothic 
churches.  Some  admire  it  unreservedly,  as  I  found 
myself  most  willingly  led  to  do.  Others  affect  to 
regard  it  as  hopelessly  unworthy  of  its  fame.  I  con- 
fess I  cannot  understand  this  belittling  sentiment. 
From  our  first  view  of  those  skeleton  spires  far 
across  the  Arlanzon  to  our  last  fleeting  glimpse  of 
them  as  the  train  sped  northward  on  our  departure, 
it  seemed  a  church  thoroughly  satisfying  both 
within  and  without.  It  shared  with  the  cathedral 
of  Salamanca  the  common  fate  of  being  a  long  time 
in  building,  but  suffered  little  or  nothing  from  the 
circumstance.  Despite  the  three  centuries  occupied 
in  bringing  it  to  completion,  it  has  escaped  the  mar- 
ring and  irritating  intrusion  of  transitory  phases  of 
taste,  and  to-day  it  comes  much  nearer  meeting 
northern  ideals  of  French  Gothic  than  do  most 
great  Spanish  fanes.  Street,  the  famous  British 
commentator,  attributes  this  success  to  the  fact 
that  Spanish  influence  had  almost  nothing  to  do 
with  the  building,  which  was  started  by  Bishop 
Maurice  —  an  English  cleric  —  and  finished  under 
the  general  direction  of  German  priests.  In  any 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  349 

event,  Burgos  is  far  more  North-French  in  tone 
than  Spanish,  which,  I  suspect,  is  more  than  half 
its  secret.  It  is  so  different  from  the  cathedrals  of 
the  south,  both  in  coloring  and  in  spirit,  and  so 
much  more  like  our  preconceived  ideas  of  what  a 
Gothic  church  should  be!  Accounts  differ  as  to 
whether  its  material  is  a  limestone  or  white  marble ; 
but  in  any  case  the  general  effect  of  it  to-day  is  that 
of  grayness,  due  to  the  mellowing  effect  of  long  years 
and  trying  weather. 

To  see  the  cathedral  at  its  best,  climb  the  steep 
hill  behind  it  toward  the  little  church  of  San  Nico- 
las, and  then  look  back  upon  its  prodigious  bulk. 
It  rises  close  at  hand,  half  submerged,  so  to  speak, 
in  the  hillside,  its  facade  and  towers  rising  glori- 
ously out  of  the  huddle  of  roofs.  The  enormous 
but  graceful  rose  window  above  the  main  portal, 
the  admirable  Gothic  windows  of  the  towers,  the 
slender  "crocketed"  spires,  the  grand  lantern  over 
the  crossing,  —  one  of  the  finest  of  all  the  features 
of  the  building,  —  all  are  seen  from  this  point  to  the 
greatest  advantage.  Still  higher  up  the  lofty  hill  one 
will  find  a  grass-grown  fort,  whence  is  a  magnifi- 
cent view  over  the  surrounding  country  well  worth 
the  climb.  But  the  best  view  of  the  cathedral  is 
from  much  lower  down,  and  after  all  is  said  and 
done,  it  is  the  one  great  sight  in  the  ancient  city, 
whose  population  has  dwindled  to  barely  thirty 
thousand  and  whose  estate  is  far  beneath  what  it 
was  in  the  days  of  old  Castile. 


350  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

The  interior  of  the  cathedral  is  slightly  less  mag- 
nificent. It  is,  as  usual,  enormous  in  extent,  being 
three  hundred  feet  long  and  eighty-two  feet  broad, 
exclusive  of  the  side-chapels,  which  are  almost  a 
series  of  separate  buildings,  and  tend  to  give  the 
transepts  the  appearance  of  projecting  to  a  degree 
quite  uncommon  in  Spanish  cathedrals.  This  mul- 
tiplication of  adjacent  buildings,  including  not  only 
the  chapels,  but  the  cloisters  and  the  residence  of 
the  archbishop,  gives  the  usual  amorphous  appear- 
ance to  the  exterior.  The  apse,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
is  semicircular,  but  even  this  effect  is  broken  by 
the  appendage  of  the  Capilla  del  Condestable  and 
the  Capilla  de  Santiago.  The  cloisters  are  spacious 
and  lofty  and  include  in  their  quadrangle  a  species 
of  basement,  —  a  curious  feature  due  to  the  slope 
of  the  hill  in  the  side  of  which  the  cathedral  is  set. 
The  whole  is  a  confusing  mass  of  churchly  buildings 
clustering  around  the  great  body  of  the  cathedral 
as  a  nucleus.  The  side-chapels,  instead  of  being 
mere  alcoves  in  the  aisles,  are  practically  spacious 
buildings,  as  stated  above,  and  it  has  been  said 
that  mass  could  be  celebrated  at  a  dozen  different 
places  at  the  same  time  within  the  church  and  still 
not  cause  the  slightest  interference.  The  width  of  the 
crossing,  the  splendor  of  the  iron  grills  which  serve 
as  open  screens  for  choir  and  altar,  the  grandiose 
effect  produced  by  the  admirable  cimborio  above, 
and  the  breadth  of  the  aisles,  unite  to  make  the 
interior  views  especially  impressive  midway  of  the 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  351 

church,  —  the  point  selected  by  Haigh  in  making 
his  celebrated  etching.  Everywhere  the  light  is 
abundant  and  the  natural  tone  of  the  limestone 
adds  to  the  cheerful  effect,  although  with  a  different 
note  from  that  struck  at  Segovia  and  Salamanca 
with  their  golden-browns.  Indeed,  I  have  heard 
it  stoutly  maintained  by  those  who  recalled  vividly 
the  lightness  of  the  interior  of  Burgos  that  its  walls 
had  been  whitewashed,  —  which  is  not  the  fact, 
fortunately,  to-day. 

It  is  one  of  the  rare  cases  in  which  it  may  fairly 
be  said  that  the  church  possesses  a  greater  charm 
than  do  the  cloisters,  spacious  as  these  are.  For  the 
latter  are  difficult  to  see  well,  owing  to  their  glazed 
arches,  and  the  configuration  of  the  land  prevents 
any  attempt  to  make  the  central  court  into  a  shady 
garden.  The  tracery  in  the  arches,  nevertheless,  is 
exceedingly  beautiful,  and  the  tombs  and  statues 
of  these  vaulted  corridors  are  unquestionably  inter- 
esting. 

Our  visit,  by  rare  good  fortune,  fell  on  the  morn- 
ing of  Good  Friday,  and  the  freedom  of  the  cloister 
was  restricted  by  the  paraphernalia  of  the  inevitable 
procession.  And  the  church,  huge  as  it  was,  seemed 
fairly  full  as  we  came  into  it  from  its  south  transept, 
climbing  the  long  flights  of  steps  where  sat  beggars 
innumerable.  A  mass  was  being  celebrated  in  the 
presence  of  a  large  and  reverent  congregation  which 
pressed  close  against  the  great  iron  grillwork  and  the 
railings  that  preserved  a  passage  for  the  priests. 


352  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

Three  of  the  latter  in  robes  of  white  occupied  three 
lofty  pulpits  above  the  heads  of  the  throng,  and 
from  these  high  places  intoned  the  immortal  story 
of  the  hearing  before  Pontius  Pilate.  One  appar- 
ently took  for  his  part  the  reading  of  the  narrative, 
somewhat  in  the  character  of  a  Greek  chorus,  while 
the  other  two  took  respectively  the  parts  of  Pilate 
and  Jesus.  They  brought  to  the  task  magnificent 
voices  and  impressive  faces,  and  when  there  was 
need  of  melody  it  was  supplied  by  a  pure-voiced 
choir  of  boys  aided  by  moaning  viols  and  a  softly 
mellifluous  flute.  The  great  organs  were  mute,  their 
flaring  trumpets  radiating  high  above  the  carved 
stalls.  It  was  frigid,  despite  the  beams  of  the  morn- 
ing sun  streaming  down  from  that  lofty  lantern 
overhead,  but  we  could  not  tear  ourselves  away 
from  that  majestical  roll  of  the  Latin  sung  with 
such  clearness  and  feeling  by  the  priests. 

The  round  of  the  chapels,  which  ordinarily  would 
have  been  easily  made,  proved  difficult  because  of 
the  pressure  of  religious  ceremony.  Nevertheless 
I  think  we  were  not  sorry,  for  while  they  are  un- 
commonly vast  and  contain  many  interesting  and 
beautiful  things,  they  cannot  compare  with  the  im- 
mensity and  grace  of  the  main  body  of  the  church. 
The  great  Chapel  of  the  Constable  (the  viceroy  of 
Castile)  with  its  carved  tombs  was  easily  the  most 
impressive  of  them  all. 

Apart  from  the  chapels,  the  most  unusual  fea- 
ture was  the  "golden  stairway'*  of  the  northern 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  353 

transept,  —  an  imposing  flight  of  steps  which  led  up 
from  the  pavement  of  the  aisle  to  a  door  well  up  in 
the  side  of  the  church,  calling  attention  to  the  fact 
that  the  building  was  deeply  set  in  the  side  of  the 
hill.  At  the  moment  that  staircase  had  been  dressed 
like  a  shrine  with  innumerable  candles,  and  was  a 
blaze  of  glory. 

In  my  later  Spanish  travels  it  has  fallen  to  my  lot 
to  become  rather  more  familiar  with  the  cathedral 
of  Burgos  than  with  most  other  celebrated  Spanish 
churches,  and  as  a  result  I  am  now  confirmed  in  my 
first  impression  that  after  all  Burgos  makes  its  chief 
appeal  to  the  lover  of  Gothic  from  without.  Within 
it  is  infinitely  less  fine  than  the  magnificent  but 
little  visited  cathedral  of  Leon,  comparison  with 
which  is  inevitable  when  one  knows  both  these 
ancient  structures.  The  glory  of  being  a  national 
capital  has  departed  from  each  city  in  equal  meas- 
ure, to  be  sure ;  but  the  situation  of  Burgos  on  the 
highroad  to  the  north  has  saved  it  from  decay, 
while  Leon  is  but  a  dwindling  shadow  of  her  former 
self,  lying  far  to  one  side  of  the  frequented  paths 
and  reached  with  so  much  hardship  as  to  make  her 
splendid  church  far  less  well  known  than  it  deserves. 
If  the  cathedral  of  Burgos  is  finer  to  outward  view, 
it  is  only  so  in  a  very  slight  degree.  Inwardly,  the 
Leon  cathedral,  though  much  smaller,  is  infinitely 
more  splendid,  doubtless  because  of  the  magnifi- 
cence and  extent  of  its  glass.  There  are,  I  believe, 
few  better  examples  of  ancient  windows,  the  ar- 


354  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

rangement  of  which  so  insistently  recalls  Sainte- 
Chapelle.  One  standing  in  the  nave  of  Leon  is  im- 
pressed with  wonder  at  the  lightness  of  it.  The 
stone  columns  and  traceries  are  so  wonderfully  airy 
and  slender  as  to  seem  more  fragile  than  the  win- 
dows they  inclose.  The  whole  effect  is  that  of  a 
fairy  palace  of  glass,  and  so  good  an  authority  as 
Street  unhesitatingly  rated  Leon  as  "among  the 
noblest  churches  of  Europe.*'  Even  those  who 
built  it,  or  their  immediate  successors,  seem  to  have 
feared  that  the  seeming  fragility  of  it  might  prove 
only  too  real,  and  as  a  result  they  incontinently 
bricked  up  some  of  the  apertures.  But  these  fears 
have  been  outgrown,  and  to-day  Leon  is  being 
carefully  restored  to  its  original  shape,  stone  by 
stone,  window  by  window.  The  work,  which  has 
been  going  on  for  many  years,  bids  fair  to  go  on  for 
many  more;  and  it  is  probable  that  every  visitor 
to  that  city  during  the  next  half-century  will  find 
its  great  church  marred  somewhere  by  scaffolding. 
The  cloisters,  which  easily  surpass  those  of  Burgos, 
were  under  the  restorer's  hand  when  we  visited  it  in 
1909,  and  the  graceful  court  was  sadly  blocked  with 
marble  fragments  and  pieces  of  stone.  In  the  end, 
however,  the  work  will  be  fully  justified,  for  the 
cathedral  is  a  masterpiece  worthy  of  preservation 
for  all  time,  incongruous  as  so  splendid  a  building 
may  seem  in  a  town  so  thoroughly  decadent  as 
Leon  has  now  become. 

Street's  encomium  of  the  cathedral  at  Leon  was 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  355 

by  no  means  confined  to  its  interior,  and  indeed 
from  afar  the  effect  of  the  building  is  quite  as  satis- 
factory as  is  the  case  at  Burgos.  Even  the  nearer 
views  of  it  are  vastly  improved  by  the  gradual 
removal  of  Renaissance  blemishes  which  Spanish 
taste  had  seen  fit  to  add  in  the  cathedral's  early 
days.  But  to  my  mind  the  unquestioned  superi- 
ority of  Leon  lies  in  its  mellow  windows  and  its 
lofty  nave,  with  Burgos  still  slightly  the  grander 
as  a  matter  of  exteriors.  Nevertheless,  Leon  is  as 
warm  and  graceful  as  Burgos  is  dignified  and  cold, 
and  if  one  were  forced  to  choose  between  the  two,  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  choice  would  unhesitatingly 
fall  upon  the  cathedral  of  poor,  old,  half-deserted 
Leon.  As  it  is,  the  world  knows  Burgos  better  — 
and  always  will,  no  doubt,  as  long  as  sight-seers  so 
generally  follow  the  lines  of  least  resistance. 

It  was  the  cold,  as  usual,  that  drove  us  out  of 
Burgos  cathedral  into  the  open,  and  in  the  sunlight 
it  proved  to  be  much  milder  than  within,  despite 
heavy  showers  that  seemed  to  hover  in  the  west. 
We  braved  the  portent  of  these  by  setting  off  on  a 
brisk  walk  along  the  river  to  get  up  a  glow,  having 
for  our  ultimate  goal  the  monastery  of  Las  Huelgas, 
which  lay  a  mile  or  more  away  through  a  beautiful 
avenue  of  trees.  Las  Huelgas  really  signifies  "  pleas- 
ure grounds,"  and  would  seem  a  curiously  inappro- 
priate name  for  a  conventual  institution;  but  the 
name  is  due  to  the  former  uses  of  the  spot,  which  was 
once  the  park  of  a  royal  chateau.  In  the  days  of  Al- 


356  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

fonso  VIII,  a  monastery  was  created  here  for  the 
Cistercian  nuns,  and  the  place  has  remained  dedi- 
cated to  pious  uses  ever  since.  Its  privileges  are  not 
what  they  were  in  ancient  days,  however.  Time  was 
when  the  revenues  of  the  order  were  enormous,  and 
the  inmates  of  this  convent  were  the  noblest  ladies 
of  Spain.  Their  number  was  rigidly  fixed  at  one 
hundred,  and  their  abbess  is  said  to  have  possessed 
the  power  of  life  and  death  over  her  subjects. 

But  whatever  its  fall  from  this  extraordinary 
greatness,  we  found  it  still  most  picturesque,  and 
its  stalwart  tower  was  pierced  by  a  cavernous  gate 
leading  to  the  court  of  the  convent.  All  that  we 
were  permitted  to  see  there  was  the  men's  part  of 
the  church,  which  included  only  its  eastern  end. 
The  nave  was  protected  against  male  intrusion  by 
a  most  formidable  grillwork  of  iron  through  which 
one  might  look  but  might  not  hope  to  pass.  There 
were  numerous  relics  of  interest  to  be  seen,  chief  of 
them  a  great  banner  which  was  captured  from  the 
Almohades  in  the  battle  of  Las  Navas  de  Tolosa. 
Also  there  were  several  important  tombs,  including 
that  of  Eleanor,  daughter  of  Henry  II  of  England 
and  wife  of  Alfonso  VIII  of  Castile.  Here  also  Al- 
fonso el  Sabio  conferred  the  distinction  of  knightly 
.orders  on  Edward  I  of  England.  Such,  at  any  rate, 
was  the  tale  of  the  thrifty  cleric  who  escorted  us 
through  the  church,  adding  to  his  religious  labors 
that  worldly  occupation  of  vending  postcards,  — 
and  very  good  ones  they  were ! 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  357 

Of  the  Cid,  who  was  a  true  son  of  Burgos,  we 
saw  little,  —  not  even  his  few  bones  that  now  lie 
in  the  Casa  Consistorial.  That  mighty  hero,  like 
Columbus,  has  had  a  migratory  career  since  his 
death  in  1099;  and  while  there  may  exist  some 
doubt  as  to  the  present  location  of  all  his  members, 
it  is  pleasant  to  believe  that  most  of  his  mortal 
frame  is  buried  here,  a  few  miles  from  the  little 
village  of  Bivar,  where  he  was  born,  and  from  which 
he  took  his  name.  His  soul,  however,  is  most  in- 
fallibly marching  on,  in  song,  story,  and  tradition. 
His  name  and  fame  we  had  met  repeatedly  as  we 
journeyed  up  from  the  south,  crossing  and  recross- 
ing  the  trail  of  this  remarkable  soldier  of  fortune; 
but  here  we  were  in  his  very  home. 

Don  Rodrigo  Diaz  de  Bivar,  to  give  him  his  full 
name,  having  on  one  hard-fought  field  caused  seven 
haughty  Moors  to  acknowledge  him  their  "  Cid," 
or  lord,  seems  to  have  preempted  that  title  for  him- 
self, or  had  it  conferred  upon  him ;  and  it  is  by  this 
that  the  world  knows  him  to-day,  sometimes  adding 
the  equally  proud  title  "  campeador,"  or  champion, 
which  marked  him  as  a  successful  man-at-arms  of 
the  king.  It  may  be  well  to  sketch  hastily  here  the 
career  of  this  national  hero,  even  at  the  risk  of  in- 
corporating a  good  deal  that  has  no  better  basis 
than  the  tales  of  ballad-singers,  for  he  is  surely  one 
of  the  most  interesting  of  all  Spaniards. 

When  Alfonso  VI  finally  succeeded  to  the  throne 
of  Castile,  at  the  death  of  his  brother  Sancho,  it 


358  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

was  the  Cid  —  for  let  us  accept  all  the  legends  we 
may  —  who  forced  the  new  king  to  swear  with  a 
triple  oath  that  he  had  borne  no  part  in  his  prede- 
cessor's taking  off.  They  show  you  to  this  day  the 
little  church  of  Sant'  Agueda,  in  Burgos,  where  this 
oath  was  administered.  No  other  noble  dared  force 
the  king  to  swear,  save  only  the  Cid,  —  and  it 
seems  likely  that  he  paid  for  this  temerity  with  a 
heavy  loss  of  popularity,  so  far  as  Alfonso  was 
concerned.  At  any  rate,  after  alternately  dismiss- 
ing him  from  service  and  restoring  him  to  favor, 
the  monarch  eventually  dispatched  him  from  his 
kingdoms  altogether,  and  the  Cid  Campeador  went 
forth  into  the  world  with  no  weapon  but  his  sword 
wherewith  to  carve  himself  a  name  and  fortune. 
In  this,  however,  he  succeeded,  and  the  panoply  of 
his  celebrity,  magnified  in  a  score  of  legends  and 
ballads,  has  served  to  obscure  the  fact  that  in  all 
probability  he  was  but  a  cruel  and  unscrupulous 
adventurer  in  the  main.  The  reputation  of  a  preux 
chevalier  is  capable  of  covering  a  multitude  of  sins. 
Space  would  fail  to  enumerate  his  famous  exploits 
in  a  hundred  different  battles  and  in  a  score  of 
difficult  missions  throughout  the  kingdom,  and  one 
must  be  content  to  say  that  he  achieved  great  fame 
as  the  defender  of  Saragossa,  and  later  conquered 
Valencia,  of  which  city  he  remained  suzerain  and 
dictator  until  his  death.  His  last  moments  were 
passed  in  sadness,  with  a  powerful  enemy  encamped 
before  his  gates.  As  soon  as  he  had  died  his  corpse 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  359 

was  dressed  in  full  armor  and  hoisted  to  the  saddle 
on  the  back  of  his  faithful  Bavieca;  and  sup- 
ported by  his  confessor,  the  valiant  Bishop  Gero- 
nimo,  he  rode  tottering  forth  from  the  city,  with 
livid  face  and  bristling  beard,  the  frightful  spectacle 
terrifying  the  foe  and  scattering  them  in  utter 
panic !  He  was  not  buried  in  Burgos  until  long  years 
after,  and  of  course  the  story  is  told  that  the  bones 
now  interred  there  are  not  the  Cid's  at  all.  Indeed, 
they  tell  the  same  tale  of  the  ashes  of  Columbus  at 
Seville! 

The  Cid  was  married  in  Burgos,  and  what  pur- 
ports to  be  his  marriage  contract  is  still  preserved. 
Also  there  is  an  aged  chest  which  the  hero  is  said  to 
have  filled  with  sand  and  pledged  to  the  Jews  of 
the  city  as  worth  600  marks,  in  order  to  raise  money 
for  a  campaign.  This  unworthy  subterfuge,  how- 
ever, was  duly  atoned  for  by  redeeming  the  value- 
less pawn  to  the  uttermost  farthing.  Too  many 
stories  exist  to  the  effect  that  the  Cid  was  really  a 
rapacious  warrior,  to  permit  this  possibility  to  be 
ignored.  But  whatever  his  faults,  Spain  has  for- 
given and  forgotten  them,  and  trusts  that  his  soul 
is  with  the  saints.  His  earthly  relics  are  scattered, 
and  there  is  more  than  a  little  doubt  of  the  authen- 
ticity of  those  that  do  remain.  The  so-called 
"  Cristo  de  las  battalias,"  the  Cid's  crucifix,  is  still 
to  be  seen  at  Salamanca,  and  is  said  to  be  the  actual 
one,  although  in  Hare's  time  it  was  hidden  or  lost, 
and  nobody  would  confess  to  knowing  where  it  was. 


36o  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

There  is  one  short  excursion  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Burgos  which  well  repays  the  effort,  and  the 
distance,  as  we  discovered,  is  by  no  means  too  great 
to  walk  if  one  likes  walking  at  all.  This  is  to  the 
monastery  of  Miraflores,  which  stands  on  a  bare 
hill  to  the  eastward  something  less  than  two  miles 
away.  To  reach  it,  one  crosses  the  river  by  any  one 
of  its  several  bridges  and  follows  the  southern  bank 
by  a  long  and  well -shaded  path  beside  which  flows 
for  a  considerable  portion  of  the  way  a  rill  of  water 
in  a  sort  of  tiny  canal.  After  a  time  the  highway 
crosses  the  railroad  and  begins  a  leisurely  climb  to 
the  left,  passing  under  a  mossy  arch.  It  is  from 
about  this  point  that  the  buildings  of  the  monastery 
begin  to  appear  across  the  ascending  fields,  their 
effect  being  rather  English  from  afar.  The  structure 
thus  seen  is  in  fact  the  church,  adjoining  which  is 
the  monastic  establishment  with  the  usual  double 
cloister,  —  to  which  senoras  are  not  admitted,  as  a 
matter  of  course.  The  ladies,  however,  do  not  miss 
a  great  deal  in  this  case,  for  the  cloisters  are  not 
interesting  nor  especially  beautiful,  and  their  in- 
tervening quadrangles  are  laid  out  as  kitchen- 
gardens  and  cemeteries.  The  church,  which  is  open 
to  every  one,  is  easily  the  more  interesting  sight. 
It  is  a  simple  structure,  devoid  of  side  aisles,  but 
possessing  a  long  and  broad  nave  which  is  divided 
into  three  sections,  —  one  for  the  people,  one  for  the 
lay  brothers,  and  one  for  the  monks.  It  was  a  silent 
and  devout  Carthusian  who  led  us  into  it  and  who 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  361 

explained  a  few  of  its  features;  but  in  the  main 
he  was  too  much  occupied  with  his  devotions  to  be 
an  ideal  guide,  and  said  almost  nothing  in  words. 
One  other  monk  was  there,  prostrate  in  adora- 
tion before  the  altar.  Both  men  were  bearded  and 
uncanny. 

The  most  interesting  object  in  the  church  was 
the  great  and  over-elaborate  tomb,  or  monument, 
erected  by  Isabella  the  Catholic  to  the  memory  of 
her  royal  parents,  King  John  and  Queen  Isabella 
of  Portugal.  It  was  a  prodigious  affair,  of  white 
marble  marvelously  carved  with  a  great  profusion 
of  tracery ;  and  like  the  tombs  of  the  Infantes  at  the 
Escorial,  it  suggested  nothing  so  much  as  a  gigantic 
fancy  cake.  In  shape  it  was  a  double  octagon,  high 
enough  to  force  one  to  crane  one's  neck  to  see  the 
effigies  of  the  monarchs  on  its  top.  The  king  and 
queen,  also  in  white  marble,  were  shown  stretched 
at  full  length,  a  low  marble  partition  between  them. 
The  whole  thing,  although  Baedeker  had  seen  fit  to 
bestow  on  it  the  distinction  of  his  double  asterisks, 
seemed  tawdry  and  disappointing,  however  much 
it  may  reveal  the  skill  of  its  sculptors.  I  could  not 
but  marvel  at  the  restraint  exhibited  in  the  much 
finer  tomb  of  Prince  Juan  at  Avila,  which  was 
erected  by  the  order  of  the  same  monarch.  This 
tomb  at  Miraflores  is  said  to  resemble  a  crown,  and 
it  does  so.  But  it  is  too  ornate,  even  for  royalty,  and 
the  plain  simplicity  of  its  surroundings  emphasizes 
its  grotesque  and  excessive  pomp. 


362  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

There  is  one  more  tomb  in  the  same  church, 
close  by,  and  also  erected  by  order  of  Isabella,  —  a 
monument  to  the  young  Prince  Alonzo,  her  brother, 
through  whose  untimely  death  the  great  queen 
came  to  the  throne  of  Castile.  It  does  not  inspire 
the  same  distaste  as  that  aroused  by  the  greater 
sepulchre,  but  even  it  cannot  be  compared  with  the 
simpler  monument  in  San  Tomas  of  Avila.  The 
Italian  artist  who  made  that  to  my  mind  far  sur- 
passed the  work  of  Gil  de  Siloe  at  Miraflores,  al- 
though the  latter  gave  a  wonderful  exhibition  of 
loading  a  marble  tomb  with  superfluous  and  florid 
adornment. 

In  a  little  chapel  hard  by  there  was  one  other 
celebrated  thing  which  seemed  less  over-praised 
than  the  tombs  had  been,  and  that  was  the  ancient 
statue  in  wood  of  San  Bruno,  the  saint  to  whom 
the  chapel  is  sacred.  Philip  IV,  on  seeing  this  mar- 
velously  lifelike  image,  is  said  to  have  started  in 
surprise  and  murmured,  "  If  he  does  not  speak  it  is 
because  he  is  a  Carthusian."  To-day,  while  very 
like  unto  life,  it  would  hardly  impose  upon  any  one ; 
and  it  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  escape  the  rather 
ghastly  reputation  acquired  by  an  effigy  in  the 
great  cathedral  below,  that  it  is  made  of  a  human 
corpse,  stuffed  by  the  taxidermist's  art ! 

I  can  recall  but  one  other  building  in  Burgos 
apart  from  the  cathedral  itself  which  still  affords 
a  lively  recollection,  and  that  is  the  Casa  Miranda, 
so  called.  It  lies  in  a  very  dirty  street  parallel  with 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  363 

the  south  bank  of  the  stream;  and  although  it  is 
badly  worn  and  sorely  dilapidated,  it  still  gives 
an  admirable  idea  of  the  appearance  of  the  great 
ancient  palaces.  Owing  to  the  narrowness  of  the 
highway,  there  is  much  difficulty  in  seeing  its  ex- 
terior; but  the  effects  within  and  especially  from 
its  patio  are  uncommonly  fine.  It  is  domed  and 
towered,  and  there  is  a  most  fascinating  staircase 
leading  from  one  side  of  the  court  to  an  arcade 
above,  as  in  the  Casa  de  Conchas.  But  this  ancient 
house  we  found  to  be  in  a  sorry  state  of  filth  and 
decay,  without  any  prospect  of  such  restoration  as 
the  Salamantine  structure  was  enjoying,  and  the 
centuries  of  wear  had  made  such  ruts  in  the  stairs 
that  climbing  them  was  difficult  and  descent  more 
difficult  still.  It  was  only  by  keeping  close  to  the 
wall  and  walking  with  great  caution  that  we  went 
up  and  down  in  safety  over  their  slippery  treads. 
The  vaulting  of  the  roofs  and  the  sculptured  friezes 
were  still  wonderful,  even  in  their  semi-ruined  state, 
and  I  suspect  that  the  evidences  of  age-long  occu- 
pancy tended  to  enhance  the  charm  of  the  spot. 

It  remains  only  to  describe  the  churchly  proces- 
sion of  Good  Friday  evening,  —  a  procession  which 
we  witnessed  from  our  balcony.  No  doubt  it  was 
but  a  poor  thing  compared  with  the  famous  dis- 
plays and  pageants  of  Seville,  but  in  its  way  it  was 
excellent,  and  I  presume  typically  Spanish.  The 
preparations  for  this  event  we  had  noted  in  several 
cathedrals,  for  we  had  seen  many  an  image  standing 


364  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

in  cloisters  and  dark  chapter  rooms  waiting  the 
proper  time  to  be  lifted  to  the  shoulders  of  patient 
bearers  and  borne  through  the  streets.  For  example, 
in  a  gloomy  antechamber  at  Segovia  we  had  seen 
a  wax  figure  of  the  Mater  Dolorosa,  very  modern- 
looking  indeed,  robed  in  mourning  of  the  deepest 
and  bearing  on  her  sallow  cheek  a  very  real  tear  — 
of  glass !  Another  of  these  we  had  seen  that  same 
morning  in  Burgos,  and  in  line  with  it  a  dozen  other 
floats,  —  for  that  is  what  we  should  call  them,  — 
sometimes  individual  figures  and  sometimes  groups, 
representing  scenes  on  the  way  to  Calvary  and  after. 
These  were  all  excruciatingly  real  if  not  inspected  at 
too  close  hand. 

And  now  had  come  the  hour  of  the  procession. 
It  was  toward  dusk,  and  yet  it  was  not  time  to 
light  the  numberless  candles  that  decked  the  bal- 
conies around  the  square.  From  the  windows 
leaned  a  curious  and  expectant  throng,  and  the 
street  below  was  lined  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 

By  and  by,  as  the  shades  of  night  were  falling, 
the  procession  appeared.  It  moved  slowly  and  im- 
pressively, not  alone  because  of  the  tremendous 
solemnity  of  what  it  portrayed,  but  because  the 
progress  of  those  heavy  floats,  borne  on  the  shoul- 
ders of  men,  must  of  necessity  be  painfully  toilsome. 
The  halts  were  frequent,  doubtless  to  afford  the 
bearers  needed  rest.  The  head  of  the  pageant, 
partly  on  foot  and  partly  mounted,  moved  in  si- 
lence down  the  street,  and  the  crowd  awaited  in 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  365 

eager  reverence  the  approach  of  the  tableau  re- 
presenting the  condemnation,  torture,  crucifixion, 
and  burial  of  Christ. 

If  the  latter  had  seemed  excruciatingly  real  in 
the  broad  light  of  day  when  viewed  from  close 
quarters,  they  were  a  hundred  times  more  so  now 
as  we  looked  down  upon  them  in  the  gathering 
darkness  from  our  lofty  balcony.  I  do  not  now 
recall  them  all,  but  there  was  a  most  lifelike  figure 
of  Christ  praying  in  the  garden,  a  terrible  flagella- 
tion, —  a  favorite  scene  with  the  Spanish  race,  - 
an  agonizing  figure  of  the  Saviour  fainting  beneath 
his  cross,  a  wonderfully  effective  crucifixion  with 
Longinus  about  to  thrust  his  spear  into  the  side  of 
the  Lord,  and  finally  the  glass  coffin  containing  the 
ghastly  body,  followed  by  the  mourning  Mary,  — 
the  latter  heralded  by  the  only  music  of  the  day,  for 
music  in  Passion  Week  is  always  the  sign  of  the 
Virgin's  approach.  The  musicians  had  selected  the 
stately  funeral  march  by  Chopin,  and  the  deep 
strains  echoed  solemnly  from  the  lofty  buildings 
along  the  way.  All  was  reverence,  and  over  all  a  hush. 
The  swaying  tableaux  lifted  high  on  the  shoulders 
of  their  hidden  bearers  moved  very  slowly  down  the 
street  and  finally  out  of  sight.  The  crowd  broke 
from  its  alignment  and  flooded  the  street,  chattering 
again  as  gayly  as  if  it  had  not  been  silent  and  awe- 
stricken  the  moment  before  in  the  presence  of  the 
awful  story  of  Calvary.  Some  said  that  purses  were 
often  stolen  in  the  crowd,  and  even  at  the  Miserere ! 


366  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

All  the  world  went  cheerfully  home  to  its  supper, 
and  we  discovered  in  a  trice  that,  as  at  Salamanca, 
fish  would  be  the  staple  fare.  But  inasmuch  as  the 
tourist  population  of  Burgos  was  much  greater  than 
at  Salamanca,  the  Hotel  del  Norte  y  de  Londres 
had  devised  a  comfortable  plan  for  dealing  with  the 
non-Catholic  stranger  within  its  gates.  If  one  de- 
sired meat  he  must  sit  on  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  table.  Otherwise  fish  would  be  served.  Now 
even  if  the  monks  no  longer  maintain  their  mule- 
express  over  the  hills  to  Santander  in  order  to  keep 
their  Friday  larders  well  replenished,  one  must  not 
assume  that  fish  is  to  be  despised  as  far  inland  as 
Burgos,  or  even  at  Salamanca.  Have  no  fear  for  the 
excellence  of  the  table,  even  in  Holy  Week,  for  if 
custom  dictates  fish,  fasting  is,  at  any  rate,  not  es- 
sential. As  for  the  desserts,  the  Spaniard  willingly 
makes  up  for  his  insistence  on  the  fish  by  redoubling 
their  variety.  I  believe  we  counted  after  our  last 
dinner  in  Salamanca  twelve  different  kinds  of  des- 
serts arranged  in  impressive  phalanges  around  our 
table,  including  natillas  and  fruits  and  cheeses  as 
well  as  cakes  and  a  wonderful  assortment  of  cookies. 
The  array  was  less  imposing  in  Burgos,  but  it  was 
considerably  more  than  enough,  including  the  white 
curd-cheese  that  forms  a  proud  specialty  of  the 
place.  This  we  later  found  on  sale  at  the  station,  in 
little  wooden  boxes,  offered  with  the  same  pride 
that  elsewhere  attends  the  Banbury  tart  and  the 
Shrewsbury  cake. 


BURGOS  AND  THE  CID  367 

On  the  whole,  I  incline  to  rate  both  the  climate 
and  the  beggars  of  Burgos  to  be  exaggerated  evils. 
Neither  gave  us  much  concern,  although  we  had 
been  led  to  expect  trouble  from  the  latter  and  dis- 
comfort from  the  former.  In  the  weather  we  were 
presumably  lucky,  but  in  the  matter  of  the  mendi- 
cant I  could  not  see  that  he  was  any  worse  than 
his  brother  of  Salamanca,  or  nearly  as  bad  as  the 
beggars  of  Ronda  and  Toledo.  Certainly  neither 
importunity  nor  bitter  sky  dimmed  the  pleasure  of 
our  stay  in  Burgos ;  and  not  the  least  pleasant  of  our 
memories  is  that  last  glimpse  of  the  slender,  skeleton 
spires  that  we  got  from  the  window  of  the  train 
which  next  morning  bore  us  northward  toward 
Miranda  of  the  Ebro. 


CHAPTER  XV 

SARAGOSSA 

THE  journey  from  Burgos  to  Saragossa  by  way 
of  Miranda  de  Ebro  requires  an  all-day  ride 
in  the  train ;  but  for  at  least  half  of  the  distance  it 
is  easily  one  of  the  finest  railway  journeys  for  sheer 
grandeur  of  scenery  to  be  found  in  the  whole  king- 
dom. Almost  immediately  after  leaving  Burgos,  the 
line  begins  to  penetrate  the  mountain  fastnesses  to 
the  north,  following  a  series  of  rocky  gorges  that 
recall  the  rugged  scenery  on  the  Algeciras  line,  al- 
though the  latter  are  hardly  as  magnificent  as  these 
of  the  northern  country.  Tunnels  are  not  infre- 
quent, but  they  are  happily  short  and  invariably  are 
followed  by  fresh  inspirations  in  the  way  of  outlook 
on  new  and  astonishing  variations  in  the  landscape. 
As  in  the  south,  the  prevailing  tone  of  the  whole  pros- 
pect is  gray,  and  in  the  early  spring  there  is  no  such 
profusion  of  wild-flowers  to  relieve  the  coloring. 
But  there  are  ruined  castles  on  almost  every  isolated 
hill  and  detached  pillar  of  rock,  and  the  mountains, 
if  not  higher  than  those  of  Granada,  are  certainly 
grander  in  their  outline  and  more  impressively 
diversified. 

It  was  through  this  fascinating  country  that  we 
journeyed  all  the  forenoon,  possessed  of  a  compart- 


SARAGOSSA  369 

ment  to  ourselves,  so  that  we  might  dash  unhindered 
from  one  side  of  our  train  to  the  other,  losing  nothing 
of  the  view,  as  the  line  crossed  and  recrossed  the 
narrow  gorges  and  glens.  But,  as  always  in  Spain, 
the  mountains  speedily  gave  way  to  a  level  plain, 
fertile  and  smiling,  and  the  showers  that  had  been 
playing  in  and  out  of  the  deep  vales  in  the  uplands 
crystallized  into  one  tremendous  deluge  of  rain  as 
we  glided  into  the  great  station  of  Miranda,  — 
which  is,  like  Medina  del  Campo,  an  outlying  junc- 
tion without  being  much  else.  It  was  at  that  mo- 
.ment  an  active  place,  trains  from  four  directions 
having  just  arrived ;  but  the  fonda  was  equal  to  the 
occasion  and  a  half -hour  sufficed  amply,  as  usual, 
to  serve  every  one  with  a  six-course  luncheon  of 
admirable  quality.  Then  out  into  the  open  again, 
where  fortunately  the  sun  was  now  shining,  and 
across  a  maze  of  tracks  to  the  Saragossa  train, 
which  was  to  bear  us  eastward  down  the  valley  of 
the  Ebro. 

It  was  our  first  acquaintance  with  this  great 
northern  river,  a  yellow  and  impetuous  torrent 
tearing  its  way  down  a  deep  but  narrow  valley 
with  railroad  speed,  and  hemmed  in  by  mountains 
of  wonderful  ruggedness.  For  several  miles,  — 
perhaps  a  score,  —  the  scenery  was  impressively 
grand ;  for  the  rock  of  these  lofty  hills  was  softer 
than  the  limestone  of  Burgos,  and  had  been  sculp- 
tured into  fantastic  shapes  by  the  wind  and  the 
rain.  Here  and  there  great  fragments  stood  detached 


370  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

and  alone,  and  occasionally  could  be  seen  thin, 
projecting  wedges  of  cliff,  through  which  the  ele- 
ments had  worn  great  apertures  and  rents.  The 
face  of  the  rock  was  marked  with  deep  pits  and 
hollow  caves.  Our  railway  line,  following  the 
river's  constricted  channel  through  the  mountain 
wall,  often  clung  to  the  merest  shelf  on  the  face  of 
the  hillsides,  and  now  and  then  was  forced  to  enter 
the  rock  itself  and  dash  along  through  dusky  gal- 
leries, through  whose  portals  as  they  flashed  past 
we  got  fleeting  glimpses  into  the  torrent  below.  As 
a  rule,  we  were  high  above  the  stream,  but  it  was 
always  visible,  always  turbidly  yellow,  and  always 
terribly  swift  as  it  raced  down  the  narrow  channel, 
in  and  out  among  the  frowning  mountains  to  the 
broader  meadows  and  plains  that  form  the  domains 
of  Aragon.  Its  upper  reaches  were  easily  the  finest 
river  scenery  it  was  our  fortune  to  see  in  Spain. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  scene  changed,  the 
river  and  the  railway  emerging  together  from  the 
rugged  country  into  a  broader  landscape.  It  was 
said  that  we  should  descry  the  distant  Pyrenees  on 
the  northern  horizon,  but  the  clouds  hung  low,  and 
obscured  their  jagged  tops,  as  they  likewise  did  the 
nearer  summits  to  the  south.  And  darkness  came 
down  upon  us  long  before  the  train  had  clattered 
over  the  long  bridge  that  spans  the  Ebro,  and  came 
to  a  halt  in  the  "Arrabal"  station  of  Saragossa. 
There  was  never  a  porter  in  sight,  and  the  train 
disgorged  a  great  throng  of  passengers  who  made 


SARAGOSSA  371 

their  way  as  best  they  might  over  the  intervening 
tracks  through  the  gloom  to  the  rows  of  omnibuses 
outside.  There  was  an  incredible  number  of  them, 
but  we  selected  the  one  bearing  the  highly  inclusive 
title  of  "The  Universe  and  Four  Nations,*'  loaded 
our  own  luggage  upon  it,  and  sat  down  to  await 
the  driver  and  concierge,  who  had  left  the  equipage 
quite  unattended.  It  was  evident  on  their  return 
what  they  had  been  at,  —  more  especially  the  con- 
cierge, whose  Easter  rejoicings  had  already  begun 
to  take  the  form  of  frequent  potation.  He  was 
loquacious  to  a  fault,  and  despite  our  frigid  taci- 
turnity persisted  in  an  uninterrupted  flow  of  lively 
conversation  all  the  way  to  the  hotel,  toward  which 
we  jolted  over  what  I  think  must  be  the  very  worst 
of  all  the  miserable  pavements  in  Spain. 

Apparently  the  ban  upon  meat  had  been  re- 
moved, for  the  late  dinner  included  it  without 
question,  along  with  some  most  delicious  Spanish 
lobster,  —  a  delicacy  not  to  be  overlooked  by  any 
traveler  of  Epicurean  taste  in  the  Mediterranean 
provinces  of  Spain.  The  wine  was  delicious,  and 
the  hotel  itself  was  one  of  the  cleanest  and  sweetest 
we  had  yet  found,  —  a  welcome  relief  after  the 
primitiveness  of  the  heart  of  old  Castile,  quaint  and 
delightful  as  that  had  been. 

Saragossa  rejoices  in  the  unusual  possession  of 
two  cathedrals,  neither  one  of  which  is  especially 
remarkable  for  beauty,  but  which  together  con- 
stituted a  potent  reason  for  our  spending  Easter 


372  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

Sunday  in  the  city.  The  two  great  churches  lay 
close  at  hand,  and  the  early  morning  of  Easter 
found  us  gravitating  between  them,  anxious  to  lose 
nothing,  and  especially  desirous  to  hear  the  organs, 
—  not  that  they  were  organs  of  high  reputation, 
for  they  were  quite  the  reverse,  but  that  we  had 
found  the  organ  music  in  Spain  consistently  hushed 
for  so  long  that  we  craved  to  hear  just  one  burst 
of  melody  from  those  lofty  groves  of  pipes.  As  it 
turned  out,  we  had  our  fill ;  for  the  two  cathedral 
services  were  so  arranged  that  it  was  possible  to 
hear  a  large  portion  of  each. 

The  older  of  the  two  cathedral  churches  is  called 
de  la  Seo,  —  "the  See,"  —  while  the  younger  and 
more  ornate  is  sacred  to  the  Virgen  del  Pilar,  —  the 
Virgin  of  the  Pillar,  — Saragossa's  most  famous  re- 
ligious association.  The  latter,  as  it  developed,  was 
to  have  the  greater  as  well  as  the  earlier  service, 
and  we  made  it  our  first  stopping-place,  so  that  it  is 
well  to  attempt  to  describe  it  first,  although  of  the 
two  it  is  easily  the  less  satisfactory.  Its  name  is 
derived  from  its  most  celebrated  relic,  the  sacred 
image  of  the  Madonna  and  the  pillar  on  which  it 
has  stood  since  the  days  of  St.  James.  In  fact,  it  is 
standing  to-day,  —  for  let  us  as  usual  become  as 
little  children  and  believe  as  many  stories  as  we 
can,  —  on  the  very  site  where  St.  James  erected 
the  Virgin's  original  shrine.  The  whole  precinct  is 
inclosed  in  the  vast  church  of  the  Pillar,  which  to 
outward  view  is  of  a  decidedly  Byzantine  cast.  Seen 


SARAGOSSA  373 

from  the  great  bridges  over  the  Ebro  or  from  the 
many  streets  that  lead  from  it  to  the  centre  of  the 
city,  Del  Pilar  is  utterly  different  from  any  other 
Spanish  cathedral,  and  for  a  further  distinction  let 
it  be  said  that  it  pleases  the  eye  far  more  outside 
than  in.  At  a  sufficient  distance  the  effect  of  its 
dozen  domes  and  towers  is  striking,  and  even  the 
embellishment  of  the  domes  with  coverings  of 
colored  tiles  enhances  the  oriental  effect  without 
making  it  unpleasantly  garish.  The  body  of  the 
church  is  commonplace  compared  with  the  adorn- 
ments of  its  roof,  and  makes  no  abiding  impression 
on  the  beholder,  save  by  its  enormous  size  and  its 
little  resemblance  to  a  church. 

When  we  entered  by  its  western  door  the  organs 
were  pealing  splendidly  through  the  vast  distances 
of  the  nave,  and  great  numbers  of  people  were 
wandering  up  and  down,  or  stood  closely  packed 
around  the  open  end  of  the  choir  listening  to  the 
singing,  which  was  supplemented  by  orchestral 
instruments  as  well  as  by  the  organs  high  overhead. 
There  was  an  entire  absence  of  the  set  forms  of 
churchly  architecture.  The  choir,  walled  in  as 
usual,  faced  the  high  altar,  likewise  walled  in,  and 
together  these  constituted  the  actual  church.  But 
they  were  far  from  occupying  the  whole  interior 
of  the  inclosing  structure,  and  left  a  generous  half 
at  the  eastern  end  for  the  special  and  separate 
shrine  of  the  pillared  Madonna.  More  than  ever  was 
it  apparent  that  the  external  walls  of  the  cathedral 


374  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

were  a  shell  merely,  and  in  thivS  particular  case 
might  have  sheltered  a  railway  station  quite  as 
appropriately  as  a  church.  Hare  relates  that  he 
disliked  the  internal  decoration  of  the  whole,  the 
general  plan  seeming  to  him  to  smack  of  the  taw- 
driness  of  a  Parisian  cafe.  But  to  us  this  did  not 
seem  a  just  estimate.  The  curiously  unchurchly 
effect  of  the  cathedral  is  simply  due  to  the  fact  that 
it  is  a  plain,  oblong  building  devoid  of  the  usual 
forms  of  cathedral  design,  and  might  serve  any 
secular  building  exactly  as  well. 

The  greater  number  of  worshipers  were  not 
gathered  at  the  main  service  at  all,  but  were  con- 
gregated in  a  compact  mass  in  the  lower  half  of  the 
nave  around  the  great  shrine  of  the  Virgin.  Here 
was  a  second  church  within  a  church,  consisting  of 
a  great  canopy  borne  aloft  on  an  elliptical  row 
of  splendid  marble  columns.  It  was  entirely  open 
toward  the  east  end  of  the  cathedral,  and  in  the 
broad  spaces  there  we  found  the  most  people,  all 
devoutly  kneeling.  Within  it  was  a  blaze  of  candles, 
and  priests  were  officiating  at  the  altar  with  great 
solemnity,  as  befitted  the  super-sanctity  of  the 
spot.  No  attention  was  paid  to  the  distant  mass  in 
the  main  choir,  the  sound  of  which  hardly  pene- 
trated to  this  remote  distance.  The  image  of  the 
Virgin  was  almost  invisible  in  her  niche  to  the 
right  of  the  altar,  and  of  the  holy  pillar  even  less 
was  to  be  seen.  The  relic  is  so  very  holy  that  most 
of  it  is  hidden  from  mortal  eyes. 


MADONNA  DEL  PILAR,   SARAGOSSA 


SARAGOSSA  375 

From  where  we  were  forced  to  stand,  the  Virgin's 
image  appeared  to  be  another  of  those  familiar 
black  carvings  dressed  with  extraordinary  mag- 
nificence, her  jeweled  robes  flashing  back  the  light 
of  innumerable  candles.  No  other  sacred  statue  in 
Spain,  and  there  are  many  such,  has  so  elaborate  a 
wardrobe  as  this  famous  doll ;  and  it  is  constantly 
being  changed,  the  priests  making  the  alterations 
with  piously  averted  eyes  lest  they  be  blinded  by 
the  Virgin's  incomparable  charm.  At  least,  such  is 
the  common  story.  It  is  further  alleged  that  the 
shrine  has  never  been  deserted  since  the  great  St. 
James  first  built  it  here,  —  except  when  the  cathe- 
dral is  wholly  closed.  There  is  always  some  one 
with  the  Virgin,  and  her  celebrity  is  great.  Of  course 
she  is  capable  of  working  miracles,  and  the  devout 
Cardinal  Retz  was  willing  to  aver  on  his  honor  as  a 
churchman  that  he  once  saw  a  wooden  leg,  when 
rubbed  with  oil  from  the  Virgin's  lamp,  turn  to 
brisk  flesh;  and  the  owner  thereof  leaped  as  the 
hart !  No  such  astonishing  cure  was  worked  while 
we  stood  there,  but  many  are  claimed  to  occur 
annually. 

The  potency  of  the  statue  has  likewise  served 
to  keep  the  whole  surrounding  church  from  harm 
during  centuries  of  storm  and  war.  Lightning  has 
repeatedly  struck  the  domes  without  effecting  any 
damage,  and  the  cannon  balls  of  the  French  in- 
vaders fell  on  the  roof  as  harmless  as  hail.  No 
wonder  the  Virgin  of  the  Pillar  is  held  in  high  es- 


376  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

teem,  even  though  some  are  skeptical  enough  to 
claim  that  the  whole  miracle  and  its  setting  were 
invented  by  Saragossans  in  a  fit  of  jealousy  to  offset 
the  growing  celebrity  of  Santiago  de  Compostela ! 
If  that  was  one  of  the  purposes  of  the  invention,  it 
has  served  its  turn  admirably,  for  the  pilgrimage 
to  the  shrine  of  the  Virgen  del  Pilar  is  among  the 
highly  essential  ones  to  be  made  by  every  devout 
Spaniard.  Tiny  reproductions  of  the  statue  in 
silver-gilt  are  to  be  had  at  every  turn. 

The  rear  of  the  Virgin's  shrine  is  walled  up  with 
solid  stone,  but  an  aperture  is  left  for  the  beholding 
of  the  foot  of  the  pillar  on  which  she  stands.  There 
was  a  crowd  around  it,  anxious  persons  taking  their 
turn  at  kissing  the  holy  spot.  In  view  of  the  revela- 
tions of  modern  bacteriology  it  seems  in  itself  no 
small  miracle  that  so  many  thousands  weekly  salute 
this  pillar  with  their  lips  and  escape  contagion,  — 
whatever  be  the  real  power  of  the  statue  to  heal 
developed  ills ! 

La  Seo,  the  other  cathedral,  is  as  different  as  can 
be  from  the  Pillar.  It  is  dim  and  obscure,  —  and 
yet  when  we  entered  there  from  the  noonday  out- 
side it  was  hardly  as  dim  as  we  had  been  led  to 
expect.  A  few  moments  sufficed  to  accustom  the 
eyes  to  the  darkness,  and  revealed  the  fact  that 
architecturally  this  was  an  infinitely  finer  church 
than  the  other.  It  was  obviously  venerable,  and 
thoroughly  dignified  and  stately,  with  broad  aisles 
lined  by  huge  columns  of  gloomy  stone  reaching  up 


SARAGOSSA  377 

into  the  murky  twilight  of  the  lofty  roof.  There 
was  an  abundance  of  sculptured  decoration  which 
might  have  suffered  severely  had  it  been  exposed  to 
the  searching  light  of  full  day ;  but  in  the  tempered 
illumination  from  the  few  grimy  windows  high 
above  it  was  far  from  bad.  Although  this  building, 
like  the  other,  was  hopelessly  removed  from  the 
commonly  received  forms  of  church  architecture, 
being  almost  a  rectangle  and  decidedly  irregular 
in  plan,  it  escaped  the  fate  of  its  sister  cathedral, 
and  remained  unmistakably  churchly.  It  had  a 
trifle  of  the  mosque  about  it,  as  the  other  had,  — 
at  least  internally.  Its  columns  were  by  no  means 
always  regularly  spaced,  and  its  cimborio  rose  to 
one  side  of  the  crossing,  instead  of  directly  above 
it.  But  these  digressions  from  strict  regularity 
were  not  unpleasing,  and  went  with  the  mustiness 
and  dusk  and  age  of  the  place  to  produce  an  in- 
describable charm.  Not  to  be  entirely  outdone  by 
Del  Pilar,  La  Seo  has  a  miracle  of  her  own  to  show, 
and  has  set  a  marble-columned  shrine  to  mark  the 
spot  where  Christ  once  stood  and  conversed  with 
Canon  Funes.  The  evidence  of  the  fact  that  this 
interview  actually  took  place  is  the  best,  —  to  wit, 
the  testimony  of  the  canon  himself,  who  reaped  no 
little  glory  from  it,  as  Ildefonso  did  at  Toledo ! 

The  streets  of  the  city  as  a  whole  abound  in  such 
a  wealth  of  characteristic  architecture  that  it  is 
hopeless  to  attempt  an  individual  description  of 
any  of  it.  The  buildings  which  date  back  to  the 


378  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

stirring  period  of  the  city's  history  are  strikingly 
massive,  and  prove  the  truth  of  the  old  assertion 
that  "every  house  was  a  fortress."  It  is  unfortu- 
nate that  these  old  buildings  are  beginning  to  dis- 
appear before  the  march  of  progress,  and  we  found 
more  than  one  ancient  structure  demolished  to 
make  way  for  broader  highways,  much  as  King's 
Way  has  cut  its  swath  through  the  heart  of  London. 
Enough  remains,  however,  to  explain  with  vivid 
clearness  why  the  French  found  it  so  hard  to  take 
the  city,  despite  the  flimsiness  of  its  outer  walls. 
History  relates  that  the  latter  were  not  more  than 
three  feet  in  thickness,  and  were  so  meagre  that 
they  failed  to  include  several  strategic  points, — 
yet  Saragossa  held  out  in  1808  from  June  until  the 
following  February.  Of  course  a  portion  of  this 
siege  was  intermittent ;  but  when  the  French  mar- 
shals, in  December  of  that  year,  settled  down  to  the 
serious  business  of  war,  their  success  would  have 
seemed  certain  to  be  immediate  and  decisive.  Yet 
it  was  not,  and  even  after  eighteen  thousand  sea- 
soned troops  had  actually  invested  the  city,  it  was 
necessary  to  take  it  anew,  house  by  house!  Not 
only  were  the  houses  strong,  but  the  men  —  and 
even  the  women  —  proved  uncommonly  valiant. 
It  was  said  of  the  former  that  they  were  as  "  hard- 
headed  as  hammers,"  and  as  for  the  latter,  has  not 
Byron  immortalized  the  Maid  of  Saragossa  who 
"shed  no  ill-timed  tear,"  but  seized  the  match 
from  her  dead  lover's  hand  and  continued  firing 


SARAGOSSA  379 

the  cannon?  Saragossa  has  not  yet  forgotten  to  be 
proud  of  those  memorable  days. 

We  left  Saragossa  in  the  early  morning  from  the 
station  awesomely  named  Del  Sepulcro,  —  and  it 
had  a  far  less  prosperous  appearance  than  the  termi- 
nal on  the  north  bank  of  the  Ebro.  Nevertheless 
business  was  brisk,  and  the  throng  of  peasants  at 
the  ticket  offices  was  tremendous.  It  was  fully  half 
an  hour  before  I  could  get  my  kilometric  coupons 
honored  and  procure  tickets  to  Reus,  —  for  it  was 
impossible  to  procure  them  through  to  Tarragona. 
This  did  not  seriously  disquiet  us  for  the  moment, 
but  later  it  proved  alarming  enough.  For  the  line 
to  Reus  does  not  connect  directly  with  the  short 
branch  that  runs  down  to  Tarragona,  and  the  inter- 
val has  to  be  bridged  by  a  breakneck  ride  in  a  crazy 
omnibus.  This  fact  we  did  not  know  until  we  had 
extracted  it  piecemeal  from  the  conductor  on  the 
train.  However,  the  conductor  said  it  was  not  far, 
and  our  halt  at  Mora  la  Nueva  at  noon  drove  every 
thought  of  it  out  of  our  heads  by  introducing  us  to 
the  best  of  all  railway  fondas  in  Spain. 

Two  bull-necked  waiters  with  close-cropped  hair, 
who  would  have  graced  any  prize  ring,  hastened  us 
through  a  marvelous  table  d'hote,  and  at  the  end, 
beside  the  ordinary  red  wine  of  the  country,  insisted 
on  our  sampling  what  they  called  vieuoc  mn  du  pays, 
which  I  think  must  have  been  a  variety  of  the 
celebrated  priorato  made  famous  by  the  monks  of 
Poblet.  At  any  rate,  it  was  delicious,  and  even  the 


38o  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

modest  glasses  of  it  served  us  sufficed  to  dispel 
every  vestige  of  our  gloomy  forebodings  about  Reus. 
Besides,  there  were  almonds,  —  glorified  almonds, 
-  treated  in  some  mysterious  way  that  made  them 
somewhat  more  than  mere  nuts.  Thus  we  forgot 
our  troubles. 

But  when  we  got  to  Reus,  after  a  bewilderingly 
beautiful  ride  over  the  mountains  and  down  to  the 
sea,  which  glimmered  and  glittered  under  a  warm 
Mediterranean  sun,  we  found  ourselves  in  for  a 
strenuous  twenty  minutes.  A  hurrying  porter,  bel- 
lowing "Tarragona!  Tarragona!*'  grasped  all  our 
baggage  and  staggering  under  its  weight  started 
on  the  run  for  a  closed  carriage  outside,  we  follow- 
ing as  fast  as  apprehensive  legs  could  be  induced  to 
carry  us.  The  coach  started  at  once  at  full  gallop 
over  muddy  streets,  lurching  around  corners, 
bouncing  over  stones  and  ruts.  The  same  porter 
clung  to  the  rear  step  through  it  all.  And  in  what 
seemed  a  much  longer  time  than  it  really  was  we 
were  dumped  in  a  heap  at  the  station  of  the  other 
line,  the  porter  again  snatching  our  bags  and  start- 
ing, still  on  the  run,  for  the  train.  I  rushed  to  the 
ticket  office,  and  in  an  agitated  voice  demanded 
three  second-class  tickets  to  Tarragona,  which  city 
we  had  already  seen  rising  out  of  the  level,  tree- 
clad  plain  ten  miles  away. 

"No  hay  segunda,"  suavely  returned  the  ticket 
agent,  —  to  wit,  "  There  is  n't  any  second  class." 

"No  second ?" 


SARAGOSSA  381 

"  No,  senor;  only  third." 

"Third,  then." 

So  we  rode  third  down  to  Tarragona,  after  pay- 
ing our  porter  several  times  his  fee  because  time 
for  disputation  over  trifles  failed  us.  We  had  caught 
our  train.  We  were  gaining  many  hours  over  the 
Lerida  route,  —  and  Tarragona  was  in  full  view 
across  a  fertile  vineyard !  Our  third-class  train  — 
it  was  immensely  long  and  chiefly  devoted  to  freight 
—  was  full  to  overflowing  with  peasants  who  were 
going  home  to  Tarragona  begrimed  with  the  day's 
toil,  all  shouting,  singing,  and  smoking.  It  was 
interesting,  —  but  ten  miles  was  quite  enough. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

TARRAGONA   AND   POBLET 

WE  found  the  station  of  Tarragona  almost 
on  the  water's  edge,  with  the  town  above  it 
on  a  height  overlooking  the  sea.  It  was  well  along 
in  the  afternoon,  but  the  sky  at  last  was  clear  and 
the  mellow  light  on  the  sea  and  distant  ships  was 
wonderfully  fine.  The  water  itself  was  a  pleasant 
thing  after  weeks  of  dry  and  sterile  upland,  and 
the  waves  lapped  softly  at  the  rocks  beneath  our 
feet.  The  railroad  yard  was  busy  with  much  traffic, 
and  among  the  locomotives  that  puffed  to  and  fro 
I  noticed  with  a  feeling  akin  to  homesickness  two 
of  outspokenly  American  build,  albeit  very  ancient, 
with  "  cowcatchers"  and  with  bells  that,  alas,  were 
not  provided  with  any  means  for  ringing.  How 
odd  and  friendly  they  looked  amid  the  array  of 
European  engines !  I  could  not  but  be  glad  that 
there  were  two  of  them ;  for  one  alone  must  infal- 
libly have  been  forlorn  indeed ! 

A  long,  zigzag  road  led  by  easy  stages  up  the 
abrupt  height  to  the  city,  but  foot  passengers  were 
to  be  seen  making  a  short  cut,  as  at  Toledo,  up  long 
flights  of  stone  steps  that  gave  a  more  immediate 
access  to  the  bluffs  on  which  the  close-set  buildings 
clustered,  gleaming  white  in  the  sunny  afternoon. 


TARRAGONA  AND  POBLET         383 

Capping  it  all  were  the  golden  towers  and  lantern 
of  the  cathedral. 

With  the  usual  impetuosity  we  cast  our  baggage 
into  the  hotel  of  our  choice  and  hastened  off  up  the 
steep  street  toward  the  cathedral  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  it  before  dark.  It  was  not  far  away,  and  the  usual 
band  of  tattered  urchins  insisted  on  bearing  us 
company  even  to  the  doors  of  the  church,  which 
were  very  wonderful  doors  indeed.  They  opened 
from  a  deep  Gothic  portal,  inclosed  by  massive 
buttresses  of  stone,  while  directly  above  them  was 
a  stone  tracery  of  indescribable  delicacy.  At  either 
hand  were  the  usual  statuettes  of  prophets  and 
apostles.  The  doors  themselves  were  huge  and 
stout,  iron-mounted,  heavy-hinged,  adorned  with 
great  knockers  and  enormous  copper  nails.  A  pil- 
grim like  ourselves  was  emerging,  guidebook  in 
hand,  and  the  children  happily  followed  him,  leav- 
ing us  to  our  own  devices.  Thus  we  entered. 

It  was  our  first  Catalan  church,  dark  and  sombre 
within,  but  grandly  impressive.  A  muttered  service 
was  going  on  in  the  deep  inclosure  of  the  marble 
choir.  Over  the  great  main  door  the  afternoon  light 
came  in  gloriously  through  a  huge  rose  window, 
probably  as  fine  as  any  in  northern  France.  The 
transepts  boasted  rose  windows  too,  quite  as  splen- 
did, and  the  glass  was  fortunately  both  old  and 
exquisite.  On  the  whole,  without  being  actually 
vast,  the  effect  was  still  one  of  ample  spaces  and 
solemnity,  to  which  latter  element  the  monotone  of 


384  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

the  priests  in  the  obscurity  of  their  carved  stalls 
contributed  its  full  share.  It  gave  the  same  im- 
pression of  great  age  that  Avila  and  La  Seo  had 
given,  especially  in  the  depths  of  the  cavernous 
apse,  which,  as  at  Avila,  was  actually  the  oldest 
portion  of  the  building. 

It  is  now  very  generally  recognized,  I  gather, 
that  there  is  a  definite  type  of  Catalan  church 
architecture  possessing  a  quaint  individuality  of 
its  own,  entirely  distinct  from  the  florid  Gothic  of 
the  centre  and  north  of  the  kingdom.  Its  chief 
characteristics  appear  to  be  dignity  and  gloom, 
coupled  with  a  curious  predilection  for  fanciful  and 
even  grotesque  sculpture,  such  as  one  finds  in 
riotous  abundance  in  the  cloisters  of  this  cathedral 
of  Tarragona.  Inside  the  building  there  was  little 
but  Spartan  severity,  save  where  the  rose  windows 
glowed  like  jewels  through  the  dusk,  their  heavy 
tracery  subtending  little  patches  of  rich  coloring, 
through  which  light  was  filtered  rather  than  poured. 
It  was  not  as  dark  as  Barcelona  cathedral  a  few 
days  later,  but  nevertheless  all  the  depth  of  the 
church  was  lapped  in  an  awesome  obscurity. 

A  mercenary  and  altogether  disagreeable  sacris- 
tan, or  rather  priest,  insisted  on  accompanying  us 
through  the  cloisters,  which  we  had  much  preferred 
to  see  at  leisure  and  alone.  He  denied  us  at  first 
even  the  poor  pleasure  of  attempting  photographs 
in  the  failing  light,  being  obviously  concerned  to 
sell  us  some  stupid,  glossy  prints  of  his  own  making. 


TARRAGONA  AND   POBLET         385 

Decidedly,  thought  we,  the  statement  that  the 
Catalan  is  first  of  all  for  business  is  true !  The  alert- 
ness for  which  the  race  is  celebrated  had  not  im- 
pressed us  unduly  at  the  Hotel  de  Paris,  where 
terms  were  reasonable  and  accommodation  poor; 
but  here  in  the  shadow  of  Holy  Church  we  ran  full 
upon  the  thrift  which  has  made  Catalonia  the  mer- 
cantile leader  of  Spain. 

Such  photographs  as  he  finally  did  permit  me  to 
make  were  but  faintly  satisfactory.  The  cloisters 
were  vast  in  their  extent,  and  the  day  far  advanced, 
—  too  far  to  give  sufficient  illumination  to  those 
ancient  arches  with  their  quaint  carvings.  In  the 
midst  was  a  garden  of  pleasantness,  and  here  and 
there  deep  dells  of  cypresses  manifested  themselves. 
Overhead  towered  the  steeples  of  the  massive 
church  and  the  curious  cimborio,  adding  to  the  effec- 
tiveness of  the  picture,  but  not  to  be  compared  in 
interest  with  the  splendidly  foliated  arches  of  the 
mossy  cloisters,  which  are  said  to  be  the  finest  of 
their  age  to  be  found  in  Spain. 

Down  obscure  side  streets  lying  toward  the  set- 
ting sun  we  found  our  way  to  the  outer  gates  of  the 
city,  —  plain  but  massive  portals  cut  in  what  re- 
mains of  the  ancient  wall.  A  considerable  portion 
of  the  latter  is  intact,  especially  on  the  northern 
side  of  the  city,  and  in  almost  as  perfect  a  state  as 
the  walls  of  Avila,  although  far  less  interesting  to 
see.  The  lower  blocks,  rough  hewn,  or  not  hewn  at 
all,  certainly  merit  their  name  of  "  Cyclopean,"  and 


386  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

are  said  to  date  far  back  of  the  days  of  ancient 
Rome ;  but  the  upper  courses  are  of  an  obviously 
later  time,  and  make  well-defined  strata  where  they 
join  the  more  ancient  work.  There  were,  as  we 
discovered,  no  such  regular  turrets  as  those  which 
had  distinguished  the  massive  cincture  of  Avila, 
but  the  gates,  buttressed  as  they  were  with  massive 
towers,  were  almost  as  fine  as  those  of  the  inland 
city. 

Out  through  one  of  these  we  strolled  boldly  to- 
ward the  north,  along  a  white  and  dusty  road  which 
we  could  see  winding  for  miles  around  and  over 
the  shoulders  of  inland  hills.  It  led  us  past  a  little 
cemetery  with  its  quadrangle  of  pigeonhole  graves 
and  dusky  cypresses,  and  up  a  steep  declivity  be- 
yond, whence  the  view  back  upon  Tarragona  was 
especially  fine.  Our  avowed  destination  was  an 
ancient  Roman  aqueduct  which  we  knew  lay  some- 
where off  in  the  adjacent  country,  and  we  made 
frequent  inquiry  for  it  of  the  multitude  of  peasants 
who  were  walking  townward.  None  of  them  had 
ever  heard  of  it,  apparently.  They  showed  us  other 
aqueducts  of  hopelessly  modern  appearance  that 
lay  in  full  view,  but  of  the  antique  one  they  had  no 
knowledge.  Their  invariable  conclusion  was  that 
we  had  taken  the  wrong  road.  At  last,  however,  a 
skeptical  peasant  showed  us  a  cart-track  leading 
off  obscurely  to  the  left  down  through  a  rocky  pas- 
ture, high-walled  and  distressingly  hard  to  the  feet, 
—  but  he  was  by  no  means  sure  we  should  find 


TARRAGONA  AND   POBLET         387 

what  we  sought  by  taking  it,  and  was  only  positive 
of  the  fact  that  we  were  wasting  our  valuable  time 
and  daylight.  Nevertheless  we  plunged  into  it  and 
followed  its  devious  course  for  a  mile  or  so,  eventu- 
ally meeting  a  coterie  of  intelligent  natives  who 
knew  at  once  what  we  meant.  It  seemed  that  we 
should  have  asked,  as  at  Segovia,  for  the  puente  de 
diablo  I 

Whether  there  is  a  legend  about  this  aqueduct 
like  that  attaching  to  the  building  of  Segovia's,  I 
did  not  learn ;  but  it  would  be  surprising  if  there 
were  not.  It  is  not  nearly  as  long  as  that  at  the 
Castilian  city,  but  in  its  way  it  is  just  as  fine,  span- 
ning a  narrow  ravine  which  makes  up  for  its  lack 
of  breadth  by  being  surprisingly  deep.  This  neces- 
sitates a  double  row  of  arches,  built  of  huge  stones 
which  time  has  mellowed  to  a  rich  golden -brown. 
Almost  all  of  it  is  still  intact,  and  we  discovered 
that  the  flat  layer  of  stones  that  formed  its  top 
afforded  a  practicable  bridge  for  the  steady-headed 
pedestrian  to  cross  the  valley  on.  We  did  not  ven- 
ture far  upon  it,  however,  as  the  day  was  far  spent 
and  we  hesitated  to  be  caught  after  dark  on  those 
lonely  roads.  The  dregs  of  Tarragona's  population 
had  not  looked  at  all  reassuring,  even  on  such  casual 
inspection  as  we  had  then  given  them, — and  later 
when  we  had  seen  them  quarreling  over  the  public 
soup  kettles  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town  we  were 
glad  that  prudence  had  driven  us  early  homeward 
from  the  Devil's  Bridge.  Nor  was  this  the  only 


388  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

benefit,  for  as  we  went  down  the  long  hill  toward  the 
city  the  sun  went  down  in  a  perfect  blaze  of  glory 
which  touched  the  walls  and  towers  with  a  rosy  en- 
chantment, glowing  bright  against  the  deep  evening 
blue  of  sea  and  sky,  while  here  and  there  a  distant 
sail  was  tipped  with  the  reflected  splendor  of  the 
west. 

But  it  was  not  Tarragona  alone  that  we  had 
come  down  to  the  coast  for  to  see,  —  Tarragona 
with  her  crooked  streets,  her  prehistoric  walls,  her 
wine  shops  marked  as  of  old  by  green  branches  and 
bushes  hung  over  their  doors,  her  cathedral,  and 
her  incomparable  situation  on  a  rock  by  the  ocean. 
We  had  come  fully  as  much  in  the  hope  of  making 
the  pilgrimage  to  Poblet,  the  ruined  monastery  of 
Espluga.  How  it  ever  came  to  pass  that  the  guide- 
books mentioned  Mont  Blanch  as  the  proper  sta- 
tion for  alighting  on  that  journey,  I  have  never  yet 
been  able  to  comprehend.  For  Espluga  is  not  only 
enormously  nearer  the  site,  but  also  is  fully  as  old 
as  the  monastery  itself.  It  was  the  proprietor  of  the 
hotel  who  gave  us  this  valuable  hint  when  we 
Jbjoaoixeol  the  subject  of  Poblet  that  same  evening. 

Now  this  excursion  had  been  in  our  minds  ever 
since  we  had  set  sail  from  home,  and  owing  to  the  ex- 
tant body  of  literature  on  the  subject  we  had  con- 
jured up  a  sufficiency  of  difficulties.  If  one  might 
believe  the  indefatigable  Hare,  whose  description 
of  the  expedition  and  of  the  monastery  is  easily  one 
of  the  best  ever  written  and  will  probably  remain 


TARRAGONA  AND  POBLET         389 

so,  a  visit  to  Poblet  meant  a  six-mile  ride  from  Mont 
Blanch  in  a  crazy  and  decrepit  tartana  (two- wheeled 
native  -cart  -without  -springs  -covered  -with  -canvas ) 
behind  a  perfectly  uncontrollable  mule,  and  over  the 
most  outrageous  of  roads.  Who,  then,  would  have 
believed  that  in  reality  it  was  nothing  more  than  a 
two-mile  walk  over  a  gently  rising  ground,  with  a 
most  affable  woman  to  carry  the  lunch  basket  and 
point  out  the  road  ?  Such  we  found  the  trip  to  Pob- 
let !  And  any  subsequent  visitor  who  craves  this  ex- 
perience has  only  to  buy  his  ticket  from  Tarragona 
to  Espluga,  take  the  morning  train,  and  on  arrival 
be  escorted  to  the  very  heart  of  the  monastery.  He 
may  ride  thither  in  a  tartana  if  he  wishes,  for  there 
is  always  one  at  the  station,  and  the  road  is  very 
good,  after  all.  But  if  he  is  wise  he  will  hire  a 
local  guide  —  generally  an  able-bodied  woman  —  to 
carry  his  traps,  and  walk.  For  it  is  not  fatiguing, 
and  a  walk  in  that  fine  country  air  does  one  good. 
We  had  some  doubt  of  the  necessity  of  hiring  the 
guide  and  porter  above  mentioned,  whom  the  hotel 
proprietor  described  as  petites  femmes,  but  he  as- 
sured us  that  it  was  much  better  to  have  one  of 
these  convenient  ladies  for  company ;  and  when  we 
jumped  from  the  train  in  the  station  at  Espluga 
and  saw  one  coming  toward  us  with  expansive  smile 
and  friendliness  radiating  from  every  pore,  we  sur- 
rendered on  the  spot.  She  said  we  might  pay  her 
whatever  we  thought  the  service  worth  —  a  danger- 
ous trade,  always.  I  do  not  remember  what  we 


390  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

finally  gave  her,  but  as  usual  in  such  cases  it  was 
probably  much  more  than  she  would  have  dreamed 
of  demanding.  At  any  rate,  she  blessed  us  heartily 
as  she  left  us  at  the  monastery  gate. 

On  the  whole,  it  was  an  attractive  walk,  once  we 
had  gotten  clear  of  Espluga.  The  latter,  it  must  be 
confessed,  was  a  filthy  hamlet,  and  like  Kipling's 
regimental  camel,  it  "  smelt  most  awful  vile."  That, 
however,  was  for  but  a  brief  distance.  Soon  we  were 
bowling  merrily  along  a  good  road  through  fields 
of  waving  grass,  the  petite  femme  proving  herself 
a  better  pedestrian  than  we  and  making  light  of 
her  burden  as  she  chatted  gayly  in  a  mixture  of 
Catalan  and  Spanish.  The  gray  ruin  of  the  mon- 
astery lay  always  above  and  to  the  left,  but  by  no 
means  on  any  such  height  as  we  had  imagined.  In- 
deed, it  seemed  to  be  on  the  verge  of  the  plain.  A 
wayside  cross  was  the  first  positive  indication  that 
we  were  drawing  toward  it,  and  shortly  after  we 
turned  into  a  gently  ascending  avenue  lined  with 
trees,  beside  which  pleasant  rills  danced  musically 
down  from  the  hillside  above.  All  about  lay  a  fair 
and  fertile  upland  valley,  as  different  as  possible 
from  the  Spain  we  had  known  hitherto. 

What  mind  pictures  we  had  made  of  Poblet  were 
utterly  shattered  and  dispersed  when  we  finally 
reached  it,  despite  the  vividness  of  Hare's  account. 
It  was  not  a  deserted  spot,  for  a  very  considerable 
settlement  had  grown  up  around  its  gates,  and  a 
trim  little  park  of  pleasant  shade  graced  the  spa- 


THE  RUINED   CLOISTERS  OF   POBLET 


TARRAGONA  AND   POBLET         391 

clous  quadrangle  that  lay  before  the  main  entrance 
of  the  monastery.  The  petite  femme  halted  not, 
but  marched  stoutly  through  the  frowning  portals 
that  pierced  the  outer  wall,  on  through  a  long  fore- 
court, and  up  to  a  portentous  turreted  gate  in  the 
thick  walls  of  the  main  inclosure.  She  thundered 
at  the  knocker.  When  no  voice  replied  she  thun- 
dered again,  more  vigorously.  Still  no  response. 
A  third  belaboring  of  the  gate  and  shrill  cries  finally 
elicited  a  faint  halloa  far  inside,  and  soon  a  grizzled 
custodian  came  clattering  down  the  echoing  corri- 
dors to  let  us  in.  The  petite  femme  went  away  re- 
joicing in  the  possession  of  much  silver,  and  we 
entered.  The  gate  clanged  behind,  and  the  bolts 
shot  back  into  their  sockets. 

Once  again  we  were  forced  to  alter  our  mental 
picture  of  Poblet.  From  the  description  in  the 
books,  we  had  fully  expected  to  give  one  glance  at 
it  and  burst  into  tears,  such  was  the  tale  of  its  deso- 
lation. Instead  we  gazed  around  upon  its  Gothic 
courts,  bright  with  balmy  sunshine  which  fell  in 
warm  bands  through  arches  of  incredibly  airy  grace, 
and  asked  the  custodian  if  we  might  eat  our  lunch 
there  in  the  shade.  He  said  we  might,  brought  us 
rush-bottomed  chairs,  found  us  a  nook  that  was 
neither  too  sunny  nor  too  cool,  and  left  us  to  our 
meal  with  a  courteous  good  taste  that  the  thousand 
sacristans  of  Spain  would  do  well  to  emulate. 

We  were  in  the  great  main  cloister  of  Poblet.  It 
was  indeed  sadly  ruined,  as  we  began  to  perceive, 


392  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

although  it  was  not  nearly  as  lamentable  as  Hare 
had  made  us  expect.  The  beautiful  foliation  of  the 
arches  was  cruelly  marred  here  and  there,  and  one 
knew  at  once  that  the  insensate  fury  of  a  mob  had 
done  this  thing,  —  certainly  not  the  kindly  hand  of 
destroying  Time.  But  it  made  no  appreciable  im- 
pression on  our  appetites,  sharpened  by  that  brisk 
walk,  and  the  luncheon  provided  by  the  landlord 
at  Tarragona  proved  a  most  excellent  one,  neatly 
packed  in  a  handsome  basket,  and  graced  with  a 
wicker-covered  bottle  of  tinto  that  even  the  abbot 
and  his  monks  might  well  have  envied.  Indeed,  if 
that  once  potent  prelate  and  his  order  had  been 
content  with  the  modest  fare  we  had  spread  in  their 
desolated  courts,  they  might  have  escaped  the  fate 
that  befell  them.  Unfortunately  they  were  not  so ; 
and  it  remains  to  tell  the  story  of  the  downfall  of 
this  prodigious  institution,  once  the  proudest  mon- 
astery in  Spain,  at  the  violent  hands  of  the  out- 
raged poor  of  Espluga. 

Less  than  a  century  ago  it  was  in  full  career.  The 
magnificent  buildings  were  tenanted  by  a  select 
body  of  religious  brethren,  recruited  from  the  no- 
blest blood  of  Spain.  To  be  chosen  a  member  of  the 
community  of  Poblet  one  must  show  the  caste  of 
Vere  de  Vere  in  good  earnest.  The  whole  chapter 
of  monkish  grandees  sat  in  solemn  conclave  on  the 
question  of  new  admissions,  and  the  pedigree  and 
quarterings  of  every  applicant  underwent  the 
severest  scrutiny.  It  was  no  mean  privilege  to  be 


TARRAGONA  AND   POBLET         393 

a  brother  of  this  order.  The  surroundings,  while 
nominally  monastic,  were  luxurious  to  an  absurd 
degree.  The  cloisters  were  surrounded  by  palaces, 
-  no  less !  If  they  had  cells  —  which  they  had  — 
they  were  no  narrow  habitations  of  monks  given 
to  austerity ;  rather  were  they  spacious  chambers, 
with  fireplaces ;  and  they  opened  on  an  entrancing 
court  where  nature  and  art  combined  to  make  mo- 
nastic life  a  thorough  pleasure.  Each  monk  had  two 
servants  and  white  mules  of  purest  breed.  In  their 
separate  quadrangle  was  a  community  of  trades- 
men in  such  variety  that  the  monks  need  not  go 
beyond  their  cloister  to  supply  any  ordinary  want. 
Kings  were  glad  to  be  guests  here,  and  many  were 
so  enchanted  with  it  that  they  decreed  their  bones 
should  be  laid  here  when  they  came  to  die.  One 
built  him  an  enormous  palace  just  west  of  the 
cloister  which  it  adjoined.  In  short,  life  at  Poblet 
was  the  acme  of  luxurious  monasticism,  and  the 
austerities  that  were  practiced  seem  to  have  been 
such  in  name  only. 

Naturally  this  order  of  haughty  grandees  grew 
arrogant.  They  increased  their  revenues  by  levying 
tribute  on  the  countryside.  It  began  to  be  noised 
abroad  that  the  brethren  put  innocent  folk  to  the 
torture.  This  was  the  last  straw,  and  the  thrifty 
Catalans,  angered  by  this  long  reign  of  lazy  luxury, 
rose  in  wrath  and  marched  in  a  vast  mob  to  the 
gates  of  Poblet. 

Why  it  was  that  the  guilty  friars  were  allowed 


394  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

to  go  free  and  why  the  mob  wreaked  all  its  insen- 
sate vengeance  on  the  poor,  unoffending  cloisters, 
battering  their  stone  beauties  to  their  present  state 
of  abject  mutilation,  cannot  be  explained.  Pos- 
sibly it  was  merely  the  national  inconsistency  that 
thus  let  the  guilty  escape  and  then  deliberately 
pounded  the  inanimate  stones  to  powder.  Or  pos- 
sibly it  was  thought  best  to  make  return  practically 
impossible  by  ruining  the  place  where  the  priests 
had  held  their  orgies.  At  any  rate,  this  is  what  hap- 
pened, — and  not  longer  ago  than  1 835.  The  monks, 
in  terror  at  the  violent  threats  of  the  populace, 
were  given  a  scant  day's  grace,  and  fled  for  dear 
life  from  the  palaces  and  courts  and  libraries  where 
they  had  been  so  happy.  When  the  last  one  had 
gone,  the  flood  of  the  mob  inundated  the  place,  — 
and  the  monastery  was  doomed.  Fired  by  a  per- 
fect mania  for  destruction,  the  marauders  spared 
not  the  Infant  Jesus  in  the  arms  of  the  Virgin  at  the 
high  altar,  but  smashed  right  and  left  with  their 
pikes  and  bludgeons  every  breakable  adornment. 
Tombs  and  sacred  images  fared  alike.  Books  of 
priceless  value  were  hauled  forth  and  burned.  What- 
ever told  the  tale  of  monkish  extravagance  and 
rapine  was  utterly  ruined.  Even  the  arches  of  those 
airy  colonnades  were  defaced  and  battered.  And 
when  the  violence  of  the  rabble  had  run  its  course, 
Poblet  was  but  a  tattered  remnant  of  its  former 
self,  a  sorry  shell,  and  nothing  more. 

It  was  indeed  foolish  and  lamentable,  but  Poblet 


TARRAGONA  AND   POBLET         395 

after  all  only  shared  to  an  exaggerated  degree  the 
common  fate  of  many  other  monasteries  of  Spain. 
Even  with  the  madness  and  fury  of  the  mob,  much 
managed  to  survive.  The  buildings  were  too  vast 
and  too  massive  to  be  torn  utterly  to  bits,  and 
before  all  was  leveled  the  rage  of  the  people  abated. 
They  retired,  leaving  the  walls  and  much  of  the 
arcades,  —  but  very  little  else.  The  exiled  monks 
never  returned,  although  now  and  then  a  few  were 
wont  to  wander  back  to  look  upon  the  scene  of  deso- 
lation and  weep  bitterly  for  the  days  that  had  been. 

The  ruin  has  been  largely  cleared  up  and  reduced 
to  a  semblance  of  order.  The  fragments  have  all 
been  gathered  into  a  warehouse  and  no  longer  strew 
the  ground.  Some  little  restoration  has  prevented 
further  decay.  It  has,  in  fact,  become  a  national 
museum,  with  a  caretaker  of  sorts,  —  a  genial 
fellow  who  does  not  bore  you  and  who  knows  his 
deserted  courts  like  a  book.  As  we  were  eating  he 
passed  by,  coming  from  the  depths  of  an  adjacent 
building,  rubbing  his  benumbed  hands,  and  re- 
marking that  it  was  muchofrio  inside.  And  indeed 
it  was,  as  we  speedily  discovered  when  we  had 
finished  our  lunch  and  set  out  on  our  explorations. 
For  the  spring  sun  had  not  yet  warmed  the  dark 
depths  of  those  stone  palaces.  They  were  clammy 
and  cold,  and  the  chill  was  penetrating. 

But  they  were  magnificent  halls  even  in  their 
ruin.  We  were  led  through  deep  kitchens,  old  and 
new,  to  the  lofty  dining-room, — a  noble  room, 


396  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

vaulted  and  tall,  with  a  high  pulpit  of  stone  at  one 
side,  so  that  the  souls  of  the  brothers  might  be  fed 
with  spiritual  food  whilst  they  refreshed  their 
bodies.  And  in  the  centre  was  a  marble  fount 
which  tradition  says  used  to  spout  iced  waters  to 
mitigate  the  warmth  of  the  long  summer  days.  But 
in  the  April  chill  the  thought  of  ice-water  made  us 
shiver.  We  should  much  have  preferred  a  jet  of 
steam ! 

The  great  upper  hall,  once  divided  into  separate 
cells,  was  now  a  huge  empty  loft  with  vaulted  roof. 
The  partitions  were  utterly  gone,  and  only  the  bare 
traces  of  them  remained.  The  vast  loft  of  the 
novices  apparently  never  had  been  so  divided,  but 
lay  lofty  and  imposing,  as  it  must  have  been  of  old. 
The  chapter  rooms,  with  their  circle  of  benches, 
where  once  sat  the  brothers  in  solemn  debate  on  the 
quarterings  of  the  applicants,  were  deserted  and 
bare,  although  tombs  remained  undefiled  in  the 
floor.  The  enormous  library  was  devoid  of  even  a 
hint  of  its  old  store  of  priceless  books.  Best  of  all,  I 
think,  was  the  great  church,  whose  high  altar  still 
rears  its  stupendous  marble  retablo,  defaced  it  is 
true,  but  one  of  the  finest  in  Spain.  The  windows 
were  staring  and  open,  of  course,  and  the  marks  of 
the  mob's  violence  were  everywhere.  But  they  did 
not  destroy  the  massive  piers  of  the  building  with 
their  lofty  pointed  arches,  and  if  they  battered  the 
royal  tombs  hey  did  not  entirely  obliterate  the 
traces  of  their  former  beauty  and  grandeur. 


TARRAGONA  AND  POBLET         397 

The  story  is  that  the  mob  verified  its  fears  of 
torture-chambers  by  discovering  a  vault  filled  with 
broken  human  bones.  To  this  the  custodian  made 
no  reference,  and  we  found  our  Spanish  utterly 
unequal  to  the  task  of  asking  him.  A  hurried  thumb- 
ing of  the  well-worn  leaves  of  "Precious  Darling" 
discovered  no  word  for  torture-chamber!  And  it 
was  this  failure  to  unearth  that  gruesome  mystery 
that  gave  me  my  one  slight  disappointment  at 
Poblet.  We  did  see  the  pavilion  where  the  brothers 
drank  "  obligatory  chocolate"  in  the  morning  lest 
they  faint  during  mass  —  and  for  that  I  am  duly 
thankful. 

It  should  be  said  that  the  monastery  marks  the 
site  where  once  lived  a  hermit,  —  Hamdushi  would 
doubtless  have  called  him  a  "  very  holy  man."  He 
managed  in  some  way  to  convince  the  Moors  — 
who  were  by  no  means  an  intolerant  race,  as  we 
have  seen  —  that  he  really  was  very  holy,  and  they 
permitted  him  to  remain  in  his  upland  retreat  un- 
molested. From  him  the  monastery  got  its  name, 
which  is  distinctly  Catalan. 

The  great  belt  of  outer  walls  still  incloses  a  vast 
domain,  sloping  down  to  the  valley  and  abundantly 
fertile,  watered  by  innumerable  little  streams  that 
flow  from  the  mountains  above.  Indeed,  the  gush 
of  the  waters  is  everywhere  heard,  much  as  one 
hears  it  in  such  paradises  as  the  Villa  d'Este  at 
Tivoli.  But  the  main  buildings,  one  and  all,  are  a 
ruin,  from  the  desolate  church  to  the  great  palace 


398  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

with  its  chambers  of  state,  and  the  deep  vats  where 
once  the  priorato  wine  was  made.  And  yet,  ruined 
as  it  is,  it  is  charming  still ;  and  the  traveler  who 
passes  through  Tarragona  will  err  sadly  in  omitting 
Poblet  from  his  reckoning.  It  shows  what  a  mon- 
astery could  be  at  its  very  best,  and  I  doubt  not  it 
was  the  most  luxurious  religious  house  in  all  the 
world  in  its  halcyon  day.  One  can  easily  under- 
stand, even  now,  when  the  glorious  courts  and 
palaces  lie  desolate  and  deserted,  how  the  bluest 
blood  of  Spain  —  for  Spain  was  the  original  coun- 
try to  talk  of  aristocratic  blood  as  "blue" 
schemed  and  intrigued  to  gain  the  coveted  admis- 
sion to  this  cloistered  shade. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A   GLIMPSE   OF   BARCELONA 

FROM  Tarragona  to  Barcelona  is,  comparatively 
speaking  only  a  step.  But  owing  to  the  fact 
that  the  really  good  trains  at  convenient  hours  run 
only  now  and  then  during  the  week,  we  found  our- 
selves condemned  as  usual  to  make  the  journey  in 
a  humble  mixed  train,  which  required  nearly  four 
hours  for  the  run.  They  were  rather  delightful 
hours,  however,  close  along  the  Mediterranean 
shore  through  orchards  of  lemon  and  vineyards  of 
luxuriant  grape ;  and  while  the  scene  was  pastorally 
peaceful,  it  seldom  rose  to  heights  of  magnificence. 
Indeed,  the  one  great  excitement  was  afforded  by 
an  impromptu  race  in  which  our  engineer  pitted 
his  leisurely  train  against  a  tramp  steamer  just  off 
shore,  headed  like  ourselves  for  Barcelona.  For 
miles  it  was  nip  and  tuck  between  us,  but  the  train 
finally  won  and  drew  up  victorious  in  a  station  en- 
tirely unworthy  of  so  great  and  prosperous  a  city. 
For  Barcelona  is  really  great,  both  in  size  and 
activity.  She  is  at  once  the  Spanish  Milan  and  the 
Spanish  Naples.  Her  commercial  importance  both 
by  land  and  sea  is  enormous.  Her  population,  in- 
cluding in  the  total  various  outlying  hamlets  that 
belong  by  every  right  to  the  city  itself,  numbers 


400  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

well  over  half  a  million.  Her  docks  are  magnificent. 
Her  trolley  lines  are  comprehensive.  Her  streets 
vary  from  the  narrow  and  squalid  to  the  broad  and 
imposing.  Besides  her  commercial  activities,  she 
is  also  noted  for  her  output  of  anarchy  and  seditious 
spirit.  At  the  moment  of  our  arrival  at  her  gates, 
the  trial  of  a  trio  of  bomb-makers  had  just  been  con- 
cluded in  her  courts,  with  three  death  penalties  re- 
sulting. King  Alfonso  had  j  ust  been  visiting  the  city, 
and  had  succeeded  in  escaping  with  his  life, — which 
seemed  to  be  widely  regarded  as  something  remark- 
able !  As  a  consequence  our  advent  in  this  para- 
dise of  merchants,  manufacturers,  traders,  socialists, 
anarchists,  and  eloquent  politicians  was  attended 
with  mingled  feelings  of  apprehension  and  pleasure. 
Of  the  seamy  side  of  Barcelona,  however,  we  saw 
nothing.  It  spread  out  to  us  a  most  imposing  water 
front  as  we  jogged  comfortably  down  to  our  hotel, 
the  huge  docks  and  warehouses  lining  the  broad 
and  gently  curving  quay  all  the  way  from  the  sta- 
tion to  the  lofty  statue  of  Columbus,  which  marks 
the  harbor  end  of  the  famous  Rambla,  —  the  city's 
central  boulevard.  Looming  grandly  ahead,  like  a 
blue  Gibraltar,  was  the  misty  bulk  of  Montjuich. 
At  the  statue  we  turned  sharply  to  the  right  and 
proceeded  up  the  Rambla,  leaving  Columbus  be- 
hind with  but  a  passing  glance.  It  was  recalled, 
however,  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  had  vented 
their  anger  at  the  untoward  results  of  the  Spanish- 
American  war  by  throwing  a  shower  of  stones,  eggs, 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  BARCELONA       401 

and  decayed  vegetables  at  the  insensate  image  of 
the  Genoese,  as  punishment  for  his  having  ventured 
to  find  so  troublesome  a  new  world  for  Spain ! 

The  hotel  was  directly  on  the  Rambla,  —  a  very 
comfortable  establishment,  with  the  rates  some- 
what excessive,  as  they  must  be  in  a  big  city,  and 
reasonably  full.  Certainly  no  location  could  be 
more  central.  Just  across  the  shady  boulevard  was 
the  municipal  theatre,  the  playbills  of  which  were 
loudly  announcing  a  production  of  "  Sherlock 
Holmes."  In  the  broad  flagged  walk  that  ran  up 
the  centre  of  the  highway,  a  vast  throng  of  people 
wandered  to  and  fro.  Street  cars  went  clanging  by 
at  frequent  intervals.  Carts  and  carriages  alternated 
with  automobiles  in  a  constantly  varying  procession. 
It  was  midday,  and  the  air  of  the  place  was  un- 
mistakably metropolitan. 

The  most  casual  glance  at  the  map  revealed  the 
curious  division  of  the  city  into  two  well-defined 
parts.  The  older,  more  irregular  section  lay  close 
to  the  sea,  its  streets  wandering  and  narrow  save 
for  the  great  central  highway  of  the  Rambla  —  or 
rather  Ramblas,  for  the  long  avenue  bears  various 
names  as  it  goes  on  up-town,  like  the  series  of 
Parisian  boulevards.  Outside  this  older  part  there 
is  a  new  one  recently  sprung  into  being,  wherein 
the  streets  are  laid  out  in  a  system  of  regular 
squares.  Between  this  and  the  old  section  is  a  cinc- 
ture of  wide  avenues  forming  together  a  kite-shaped 
boundary  for  the  older  town.  There  were  frequent 


402  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

spaces  of  vacant  land  in  the  newer  part,  as  we 
subsequently  discovered,  but  the  town  straggled 
off  into  the  outer  country,  as  all  large  cities  must, 
and  no  perceptible  interval  was  to  be  seen  between 
Barcelona  proper  and  her  suburbs  of  Sans,  Mont- 
juich,  Sarria,  Gracia,  and  a  half-dozen  others.  Bar- 
celona had  simply  spread  herself  out  over  such  ter- 
ritory as  she  needed,  and  where  the  land  was  not  yet 
filled  in  it  was  at  any  rate  laid  out  with  the  view  to 
building.  On  the  whole,  with  all  her  reputation  for 
turbulence,  Barcelona  seemed  an  enlightened  and 
thoroughly  progressive  city. 

We  were  living  on  the  Rambla  del  Centro,  which 
farther  up  the  line  changed  its  name  to  the  Rambla 
de  San  Jos6 ;  and  just  beyond  this,  at  about  a  mile 
from  the  hotel,  lay  the  great  main  square  of  the 
city  —  the  Plaza  de  Cataluna.  Naturally  our  most 
intimate  acquaintance  came  to  be  with  these  Ram- 
bias,  which  not  only  lay  at  our  doors  but  must  be 
traversed  every  time  we  went  out  on  pleasure  or 
business  bent.  They  were  at  their  best  in  the  early 
hours  of  the  forenoon  under  the  balmy  freshness 
of  the  Riviera  climate,  —  never  rigorous  even  in 
winter,  and  simply  ideal  in  spring. 

It  was  a  very  broad  street,  the  Rambla,  and 
through  its  midst  ran,  as  I  have  intimated,  a  very 
spacious  central  promenade,  paved  with  broad 
stone  flagging  and  lined  with  luxuriant  plane  trees, 
now  in  full  leaf.  All  up  and  down  the  promenade  of 
a  morning  there  were  booths  for  the  sale  of  flowers, 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  BARCELONA       403 

birds,  and  other  gayly-colored  things,  presided  over 
by  vivacious  and  picturesquely  clad  Catalan  wo- 
men. The  effect  was  kaleidoscopic,  and  while  the 
coloring  was  often  barbaric  in  its  luxuriant  bril- 
liance, it  was  all  thoroughly  charming.  The  flowers 
were  displayed  in  unstudied  magnificence,  —  huge 
bunches  of  roses,  peonies,  camelias,  assorted  blos- 
soms without  number  —  massed  in  a  perfect  riot 
of  color  under  gay  umbrellas  which  served  to  eke 
out  the  shade.  The  bird  booths  were  only  less  gay, 
with  their  multitudes  of  feathered  songsters  in  tiny 
wooden  cages,  —  birds  of  wonderful  plumage  and 
constant  melody.  I  have  never  seen  such  an  array 
of  tiny  creatures  of  such  wonderfully  variant  iri- 
descence, so  many  canaries  all  trilling  at  once,  so 
many  grave  green  and  yellow  parrots.  The  latter 
were  sometimes  in  cages  and  sometimes  on  open 
perches.  They  were  of  all  ages  and  sizes,  from 
hardened  veterans  to  brisk  young  things  that  had 
not  learned  to  speak  or  even  to  look  roguishly  wise. 
Needless  to  say,  the  whole  morning  air  of  the  Ram- 
bla  was  heavy  with  perfume  and  filled  with  musical 
twitterings,  while  the  booth-tenders  kept  up  a 
running  fire  of  badinage.  Everybody  was  in  high 
good  humor,  and  of  that  ugly  undercurrent  of  un- 
rest in  Barcelona  which  now  and  then  produces  an 
outbreak  of  incendiary  spirit,  there  was  no  sign. 
Instead  all  was  fair  and  balmy,  and  the  walk  from 
the  Hotel  of  the  Four  Nations  to  Cataluna  Square 
was  a  constant  delight. 


404  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

Of  course  the  two  sides  of  the  wide  highway  were 
lined  with  indoor  shops  in  great  abundance,  but  not 
all  the  business  was  confined  to  the  Rambla  by  any 
means.  To  the  left  there  was  a  great  public  market 
where  the  booths  were  only  less  attractive  than 
those  of  the  Rambla  in  their  own  peculiar  way  — 
presided  over  as  the  others  had  been  by  rosy- 
cheeked  women.  On  the  other  side  of  the  boulevard 
many  streets  led  off  by  an  easy  grade  to  a  neigh- 
boring hill  —  and  one  of  these,  the  important  Calle 
de  Fernando  VII,  proved  to  be  one  of  the  finest 
shopping  streets  in  Spain,  apparently  the  favored 
resort  of  aristocratic  buyers.  Few  of  these  shops 
were  large,  and  I  do  not  recall  that  we  found  in  any 
place  such  great  emporia  as  those  of  the  centre  of 
Paris.  But  they  were  tiny  and  choice,  like  so  many 
of  those  in  the  French  capital ;  and  to  browse  our 
way  up-town  among  them  was  a  pleasure,  which 
usually  appealed  to  the  sefioras  somewhat  more 
strongly  than  to  me.  There  was  another  favorite 
haunt  of  ours  just  behind  the  hotel,  —  an  arcaded 
square  reminiscent  of  the  various  old  plazas  in  the 
interior  of  Spain,  but  called  in  this  case  the  Plaza 
Real,  —  where  there  were  many  fascinating  things 
to  be  bought,  and,  wonderful  to  relate,  even  films 
for  cameras,  a  thing  which  Spain  has  not  yet 
learned  how  to  provide  save  in  such  frequented 
places  as  Barcelona  and  Madrid.  I  had  been  on 
short  commons  for  a  long  time  with  my  own  cam- 
eras, and  it  was  only  by  rare  good  fortune  that  I 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  BARCELONA       405 

had  been  able  to  find  three  ancient  films  in  Sara- 
gossa  by  dint  of  an  Easter  Sunday  hunt  among  the 
third-story  shops  in  an  obscure  street.  One  visiting 
Spain  will  do  well  to  provide  himself  abundantly 
before  leaving  home.  Even  in  Barcelona  we  were 
not  always  sure  of  getting  all  we  wanted,  —  and 
I  need  hardly  say  that  the  temptation  to  make 
photographs  is  nowhere  stronger  than  it  is  in 
Spain.  The  name,  by  the  way,  for  films  in  Spanish 
appears  to  be  "  pelfcolas  de  Kodak."  It  was  in 
Barcelona  that  I  ventured  once  again  to  have  some 
of  my  films  developed,  curiosity  being  unable  longer 
to  forego  that  pleasure.  The  work  was  fairly  well 
done,  but  I  suspect  it  might  be  done  better.  For 
in  one  place  —  I  think  Granada  —  I  had  caught 
the  primitive  photographer  whom  I  had  trusted 
with  my  precious  negatives  washing  them  in  a 
horse  trough ! 

It  was  very  evident  that  Barcelona  was  not 
Spanish,  but  Catalan,  and  that  her  streets  and 
shops  were  very  differently  managed  even  from 
the  great  ones  of  Madrid.  Even  the  curious  Catalan 
language  —  for  it  is  more  than  a  dialect  —  was  to 
be  heard  everywhere,  and  the  Catalonian  seems  to 
be  proud  of  keeping  it  distinct.  He  will  not  readily 
admit  that  he  is  Spanish,  or,  as  he  says,  "  Castilian." 
Catalonia  has  not  only  retained  her  .language,  but 
she  has  written  a  considerable  literature  in  it,  dis- 
cussed problems  of  science,  composed  poems !  The 
mark  of  her  guttural  tongue  is  over  everything  the 


406  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

moment  you  emerge  from  Aragon.  The  railroad 
stations  began  to  show  us  such  words  as  "  Puig  " 
and  "  Prat"  the  moment  we  began  to  climb  out  of 
Mora  Nueva  on  our  journey  down  to  Tarragona. 
Everywhere  we  ran  across  the  disdain  felt  by  Bar- 
celona for  Madrid  and  its  indolent  people.  The 
hotel  proprietor  was  one  of  those  who  had  no  love 
for  a  haughty  guest  whom  he  described  to  me  one 
day  as  "  sitting  in  there  with  all  the  pride  of  Madrid 
upon  him."  Nobody,  at  any  rate,  can  accuse  the 
Catalan  of  being  lazy,  and  in  the  outer  country  he 
is  far  from  lacking  in  picturesqueness,  with  his 
curious  long  cap  pulled  well  over  his  eyes.  In  Bar- 
celona, however,  the  air  of  everything  was  thor- 
oughly mid-European,  save  when  mule-drivers  hur- 
ried by  with  their  pattering  steeds,  growling  at  them 
from  under  their  Catalan  headgear. 

Barcelona  has  a  cathedral  —  and  a  magnificent 
one.  As  an  example  of  the  Catalan  church  it  is 
probably  without  a  superior,  and  especially  on  the 
score  of  its  interior  gloom.  We  came  to  it  through  a 
side  street  leading  down  from  the  Calle  Fernando, 
which  inducted  us  before  we  were  fully  aware  of  it 
into  the  great  cloisters.  These  were  protected  from 
the  busy  town  without  by  massive  walls  of  a  plain- 
ness which  presaged  little  of  the  fine  Gothic  arcades 
within ;  wherefore  the  surprise  when  we  entered  was 
the  greater.  All  around  the  quadrangle  were  rows 
of  stately  chapels,  much  as  around  the  ordinary 
cathedral  of  the  faith,  while  in  the  open  square  which 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  BARCELONA       407 

the  cloister  inclosed  was  a  deep  garden,  —  palms, 
lemon  trees,  oranges,  medlars,  giant  geraniums, 
oleanders.  The  arches,  which  were  filled  with 
Gothic  tracery  and  heavily  barred,  gave  fascinating 
glimpses  into  this  mass  of  greenery ;  and  in  a  cool 
corner  just  under  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral's 
mighty  bulk  there  was  a  fountain  playing  musically 
into  a  pool,  the  curb  of  which  was  covered  with  an- 
cient mosses.  It  was  here  that  we  found  the  canons' 
geese  —  pure  white  birds  that  are  maintained  as  a 
regular  part  of  the  churchly  menage  and  said  to  be 
descendants  of  the  birds  which  even  down  to  com- 
paratively recent  times  were  still  used  for  augury. 
Possibly  they  have  at  some  time  saved  the  cathe- 
dral treasures  by  timely  quacking !  At  any  rate,  they 
are  there  in  the  cloister,  floating  whitely  in  the 
deep  pools  of  the  garden  where  the  fountain  cools 
the  air  and  charms  the  ear  with  its  melodious 
trickling. 

It  was  astonishingly  dark  inside  the  church, 
which  was  far  more  imposing  in  its  details  than  the 
cathedral  at  Tarragona,  as  befitted  a  wealthier 
chapter,  but  which,  like  Tarragona,  contrived  to 
impress  one  with  a  sense  of  vast  spaces  by  cunningly 
arranged  windows  and  a  sparse  diffusion  of  light. 
It  was  many  minutes  before  we  could  see  anything 
at  all  in  the  twilight,  which  rivaled  that  of  La  Seo. 
The  lamps  of  different  shrines  were  easily  distin- 
guished, and  the  grand  bulk  of  altar  and  choir 
loomed  up  in  the  mysterious  darkness.  Lofty  win- 


408  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

dows  heavy  with  color  let  in  but  an  indefinite 
glimmer  to  light  the  pavement  of  the  nave.  Never- 
theless, when  we  had  grown  accustomed  to  the 
obscurity  we  fell  in  love  with  this  old  church.  What 
one  saw,  even  darkly,  was  worth  the  seeing.  There 
are  few  finer  carved  choir  stalls  than  those  of  Bar- 
celona, with  their  lofty  canopy  of  wooden  tracery 
and  lacework,  blackened  with  age;  and  few  more 
interesting  marks  of  antiquity  than  the  traces  of 
escutcheons,  faintly  seen,  which  recall  the  institu- 
tion here  of  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Fleece  by 
Charles  the  Fifth. 

Also  there  is  a  deep  crypt  beneath  the  high  altar, 
into  which  descends  a  flight  of  steps ;  and  it  is  here 
that  the  body  of  Santa  Eulalia  lies,  buried  in  an 
alabaster  sarcophagus  befitting  the  tutelary  saint 
of  the  thriving  city.  I  suppose  we  might  by  due 
diligence  have  obtained  access  to  this  sanctified  spot, 
but  we  were  unfortunately  turned  aside  at  that 
moment  by  the  melodious  beginnings  of  a  service 
far  down  the  aisle,  in  one  of  the  obscure  side-chapels, 
which  for  the  time  being  had  been  made  to  glow 
with  radiance  by  innumerable  candles.  Up  in  a 
lofty  gallery  somewhere  in  the  obscurity  of  the  nave 
a  choir  of  men  began  a  solemn  chant  accompanied 
by  the  sob  of  subdued  viols,  and  in  the  nave  below 
a  reverent  throng  of  people  watched  the  ministra- 
tions of  a  priest.  I  gathered  from  a  bystander  that 
this  was  a  memorial  service  for  some  person  lately 
dead  —  and  not  necessarily  very  lately,  either,  for 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  BARCELONA       409 

such  masses  are,  of  course,  common  even  after  the 
deceased  has  been  a  year  and  more  in  his  grave.  I 
do  not  recall  that  I  have  spoken  of  it,  but  one  who 
sees  much  of  Spanish  newspapers  cannot  but  be 
impressed  with  the  number  of  advertisements  of 
such  memorial  masses  published  daily,  invariably 
surrounded  by  mourning  borders  of  impressive 
width. 

Externally,  Barcelona  cathedral  leaves  much 
to  be  desired.  It  is  difficult  to  see,  and  when  seen  is 
far  less  fine  than  the  simpler  edifice  at  Tarragona. 
It  is  said  to  be  still  incomplete,  although  one  can 
hardly  regret  that  fact,  since  to  all  seeming  it  was 
finished  ages  ago.  Let  its  outward  imperfections 
be  what  they  may,  inwardly  at  any  rate  it  is  soul- 
satisfying  and  grand.  And  I  hold  in  my  mind  to-day 
chiefly  the  recollection  of  its  wonderfully  dark  in- 
terior, in  striking  contrast  against  that  glowing 
memory  of  the  Rambla  with  its  birds  and  its  flowers 
and  its  shouting  throngs. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MONSERRAT 

BY  as  much  as  Barcelona  seemed  a  big,  bustling, 
heartless  city,  by  so  much  we  fell  short  of 
learning  to  love  it,  and  speedily  betook  ourselves 
away  from  it  to  the  highlands  of  the  open  country 
on  an  excursion  to  which  we  had  long  been  looking 
forward.  This  was  the  journey  out  to  the  isolated 
monastery  of  Monserrat,  which  proved,  as  we  had 
expected,  the  culminating  point  of  all  our  Spanish 
travels.  And  as  such  I  can  hardly  choose  a  more 
fitting  relation  to  close  this  narrative  than  the  tale 
of  our  pilgrimage  to  that  lofty  shrine. 

One  is  tempted  to  enter  first  of  all  upon  an  elabo- 
rate invocation  of  the  muses,  lest  the  whole  narra- 
tion fail.  For  Monserrat  is  not  lightly  to  be  de- 
scribed. It  is  a  spot  of  stupendous  grandeur  and 
enormous  sanctity,  entitled  to  rank  among  the  most 
holy  retreats  of  Christendom.  After  the  hallowed 
soil  of  Gethsemane  and  Calvary,  Nazareth  and 
Bethlehem,  what  place  more  worthy  of  reverence 
than  the  age-long  hiding-place  of  the  Holy  Grail? 
Or,  since  we  are  in  Catholic  Spain,  what  spot  more 
worthy  of  visitation  than  that  which  marked  the 
institution  of  Loyola's  erudite  Jesuits?  All  these 
things  is  Monserrat  to  the  true  believer ;  and  of  the 


"GUARDIANS  OF  THE  GRAIL,"    MONSERRAT 


MONSERRAT  411 

work  of  Ignatius  Loyola,  at  least,  there  can  be  no 
doubt.  One  may  question  whether  the  deep  valley 
in  the  midst  of  this  wonderful  mountain  was  really 
rent  in  the  rocks  at  the  moment  of  Christ's  cruci- 
fixion, but  never  the  inspiring  grandeur  of  this 
shrine,  or  its  fitness  to  have  harbored  the  Grail  as  a 
priceless  relic. 

Monserrat  —  the  serrated  mountain  —  is  well 
worthy  the  name.  Seen  from  afar  it  overwhelms 
one  with  astonishment.  Is  it  possible,  one  exclaims, 
that  such  a  rock  can  exist  outside  the  realms  of 
dreams  and  fanciful  pictures?  Imagine,  if  you 
please,  a  ghostly  apparition  of  gray  rising  far  into 
the  clouds  out  of  a  stupendous  valley,  isolated  from 
every  other  height,  yet  attaining  the  grand  propor- 
tions of  a  mountain.  And  such  a  mountain !  For 
its  top  is  no  single  peak,  but  a  hundred  gigantic 
pillars,  some  alone,  some  gathered  in  clusters,  all 
standing  mistily  mysterious  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  sky.  It  is  like  a  gigantic  organ  of 
granite,  with  rank  on  rank  of  lofty  pipes.  Here  and 
there  are  groups  of  titantic  fingers,  raised  as  if  in 
blessing.  There  and  yonder  are  stern,  inexorable 
rocky  thumbs.  One,  at  least,  looks  to  be  a  colossal 
idol,  rudely  carved.  Seen  from  far  away  across  the 
plain,  this  array  of  rocky  saw-teeth  produces  a 
sensation  of  awe.  Seen  from  close  at  hand,  at  the 
very  bases  of  these  inaccessible  columns,  their  aw- 
fulness  is  magnified  a  thousand -fold.  I  know  of  no 
place  more  unreal  to  all  seeming  than  Monserrat, 


4i2  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

when  first  seen  by  the  unsuspecting  voyager  from 
a  distance.  It  is  as  if  a  gigantic  conflagration  had 
suddenly  been  turned  to  stone,  just  as  its  flames 
were  leaping  skyward.  Small  wonder  that  tradition 
has  made  this  a  spot  most  dear  to  God,  as  the  an- 
cients held  Mount  Ida  and  the  glens  of  Delphi  to 
be.  And  little  imagination  does  it  need  to  identify 
this  desolate  rock  of  a  hundred  spires  with  Wagner's 
"  Monsalvat."  The  grim  turrets  of  the  mountain 
might  well  be  the  battlements  of  Klingsor's  en- 
chanted castle! 

Now  in  the  older  days  it  was  the  dream  and  desire 
of  every  pious  Spaniard  to  get  him  to  a  monastery 
in  the  decline  of  his  years,  and  to  pass  the  remainder 
of  his  days  in  prayer,  fasting,  and  flagellations,  to 
the  undoubted  glory  of  God  and  the  hopeful  remis- 
sion of  his  own  sins.1  The  more  fortunate  and  less 
sincere  were  probably  those  at  Poblet.  The  less 
luxurious  and  more  genuinely  repentant  sought 
such  hermitages  as  the  crags  of  lonely  Monserrat 
afforded,  and  the  nooks  and  crannies  of  that  moun- 
tain came  to  be  filled  with  their  huts,  —  for  it  was 
very  near  to  God,  and  the  associations  of  the  place 
were,  as  we  shall  see,  indicative  of  wondrous  holi- 

1  "  It  is  a  common  and  indeed  a  commendable  custom  among 
the  Spaniards,  when  he  hath  passed  his  grand  climacterie,  to  make 
voluntary  resignation  of  offices,  be  they  never  so  great  and  so  pro- 
fitable, and  sequestering  and  weaning  themselves,  as  it  were,  from 
all  mundane  negotiations  and  incumbrances,  to  retire  to  some  Place 
of  Devotion  and  spend  the  residue  of  their  Days  in  Meditation." 
—  JAMES  Ho  WELL  (1622),  Familiar  Letters. 


"TITANIC   FINGERS  RAISED  AS   IF   IN   BLESSING 


MONSERRAT  413 

ness.  It  was  to  the  monasteries  of  the  mountain 
that  Ignatius  Loyola,  weary  of  war  and  lamed  by  a 
chance  shot  in  that  most  cherished  of  his  bodily 
vanities,  —  his  shapely  legs,  —  dragged  himself  to 
pass  a  long  period  of  penitence.  Already  he  had 
passed  many  months  of  pious  meditation  and 
prayer  at  Manresa,  and  his  soul  had  yearned  toward 
those  misty  towers  of  Monserrat,  which  he  could 
descry  as  he  looked  down  across  the  tremendous 
bowl  of  the  valley.  And  now,  disabled  for  further 
earthly  valiance,  he  came  to  Monserrat  to  found 
there  a  novel  army,  and  to  vow  his  remaining  years 
to  arduous  service  of  the  Virgin,  —  for  Monserrat 
was  in  high  favor  with  the  Virgin,  too. 

When  St.  Peter  came  to  Spain,  —  for  let  us  be 
very  well  assured  that  he  did  come  shortly  after  the 
tragic  close  of  Christ's  ministry  on  earth,  —  he 
brought  with  him  one  of  those  black  images  of  the 
Virgin  carved  in  wood  which  tradition  so  universally 
ascribes  to  the  workmanship  of  the  versatile  St. 
Luke.  In  some  way  it  came  to  be  hidden  in  the 
sacred  fastnesses  of  Monserrat,  as  the  Grail  was,  to 
keep  it  out  of  the  grasp  of  the  Moors.  In  A.  D.  880  its 
whereabouts  was  accidentally  discovered  by  some 
peasants,  and  they  set  out  joyously  to  bear  it  off  to 
Manresa.  The  image,  however,  steadfastly  refused 
to  be  carried  down  the  mountain ;  and  when  they 
had  managed  to  carry  it  as  far  as  the  turn  of  the 
road  that  faces  the  north,  it  "held  itself  immovable." 
This  could  mean  but  one  thing,  —  the  Virgin 


4i4  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

deemed  this  to  be  holy  ground,  and  must  not  be  re- 
moved from  it.  Whereupon  a  nunnery  arose  there 
in  a  cleft  of  the  colossal  rock,  just  where  the  for- 
bidding pillars  spring  toward  the  sky,  and  Monser- 
rat  came  into  being.  In  time  this  gave  place  to  a 
monastery  of  Benedictines,  —  men  of  rare  ability, 
it  would  seem,  for  they  practiced  the  arts  and  crafts 
with  high  skill,  and  possessed  one  of  the  first  print- 
ing presses  in  Spain.  They  adorned  their  great 
church  with  much  gold.  Immense  buildings  arose 
as  the  tide  of  pilgrimage  began  to  sweep  up  in  in- 
creasingly ample  waves,  against  this  giant  cliff. 
Queen  Violante  is  said  to  have  climbed  the  moun- 
tain barefoot,  and  Charles  V,  half  monastic  already, 
came  nine  times  to  the  shrine  of  Our  Lady  of  Mon- 
serrat. 

What  stands  there  now  is  all  of  later  construction, 
however.  The  invaders  of  the  early  nineteenth 
century  took  pains  to  ascend  and  despoil  Monserrat, 
even  hauling  their  cannon  to  the  heights  over  the 
ancient  road.  But  the  celebrity  of  the  site  has 
revived,  —  if  indeed  it  was  ever  interrupted,  —  and 
pilgrims  to-day  make  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin  an 
object  of  deep  veneration,  sometimes  coming  by 
thousands  in  the  week  to  a  monastery  that  is  really 
a  colossal  mountain  hospice  adjoining  a  gigantic 
mountain  church. 

Fate  ordained  that  our  own  distant  views  of 
Monserrat  should  be  had  only  as  we  left  it  behind 
on  our  way  homeward.  On  the  showery  morning 


MONSERRAT  415 

of  our  approach,  its  summit  was  discreetly  veiled  in 
a  dense  bank  of  clouds.  The  railway  climbed  slowly 
from  the  meadows  by  the  sea  into  a  rocky  upland 
until  we  were  evidently  skirting  the  rim  of  a  pro- 
digious valley.  We  knew  Monserrat  lay  in  its 
midst,  and  we  could  easily  see  its  mighty  base ;  but 
of  its  incredible  skyline  we  had  no  hint.  It  was 
simply  a  huge  gray  mass  capped  in  cloud,  rising  like 
a  boss  out  of  a  gigantic  concave  shield.  Had  it  not 
been  for  rifts  here  and  there  in  the  cloud  which 
showed  little  patches  of  blue,  we  should  have  been 
disheartened  indeed. 

As  the  train  drew  into  Monistrol,  however,  we 
discovered  that  the  fog  had  begun  to  lift  a  trifle,  and 
that  the  buildings  of  the  monastery  were  to  be  seen 
halfway  up  the  gray  side  of  the  mountain,  although 
the  cloud  hung  nearly  to  the  roofs.  Between  us 
yawned  a  river  valley,  traversed  by  the  winding 
Llobregat,  in  the  midst  of  which  vale  the  town  of  Mo- 
nistrol made  itself  manifest — a  gray  patch  on  the 
green.  Along  the  face  of  Monserrat  a  faint,  indefi- 
nite mark  indicated  the  course  of  its  wonderfully 
engineered  but  wholly  incongruous  funicular  rail- 
way, which  makes  the  present  pilgrimage  so  easy. 

The  funicular  train  stood  waiting  at  the  same 
station  as  that  of  the  regular  line.  It  proved  to  be  a 
very  ordinary  rack-and-pinion  affair  with  the  usual 
inclined  seats  —  highly  desirable  on  the  face  of  the 
mountain,  but  incredibly  uncomfortable  on  the 
levels.  We  endured  them,  however,  for  the  breadth 


4i6  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

of  the  valley  where  the  road  instead  of  ascending 
actually  went  down  grade  and  finally  crossed  the 
river  on  a  bridge  of  iron ;  but  when  it  had  led  us  up 
to  the  second  station  of  Monistrol,  —  the  one  that 
serves  the  village  and  is  more  accurately  called 
"  Monistrol  Villa," — we  alighted  and  let  the  train 
go  on  without  us.  We  had  no  intention  of  being 
borne  to  Monserrat  on  flowery  beds  of  ease.  We 
intended  to  walk,  as  beseemeth  pilgrims.  However, 
when  the  train  had  panted  out  of  sight  up  the  now 
rapidly  ascending  line,  we  could  see  no  sign  of  a 
road.  It  was  known  to  exist,  and  the  books  all  spoke 
highly  of  it,  varying  only  as  to  the  date  of  its  con- 
struction. One  rashly  ascribed  it  to  the  year  1859, 
another  said  it  was  the  work  of  monks,  and  a  third 
that  it  was  built  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  over  it 
Napoleon's  marshals  had  dragged  their  impious 
cannon. 

Seeing  no  other  course  open,  we  plunged  boldly 
up  the  line  of  the  railway  in  the  direction  taken  by 
the  train,  which,  although  now  out  of  sight  in  the 
curves  of  its  ascent,  was  still  stertorously  puffing 
and  waking  the  echoes  with  its  busy  noise.  Then 
appeared  a  short  but  dripping  tunnel,  through  which 
we  scampered  in  imminent  fear  of  being  caught 
there  by  a  descending  train,  —  and  at  last  the  car- 
riage road  was  found,  crossing  the  line  at  grade  and 
seemingly  leading  in  exactly  the  wrong  direction. 
At  any  rate,  when  we  swung  off  into  it  we  turned 
our  backs  upon  the  mountain  for  a  space,  as  the 


^m 


MONSERRAT  417 

highway,  always  ascending  at  a  gradual  pace, 
wound  in  long  spirals  around  outlying  shoulders  of 
the  mountain  mass.  It  was  a  splendid  road,  hard 
and  white  and  beautiful,  —  and  it  seemed  never  to 
head  directly  for  the  mountain  itself.  It  gave  us  con- 
stantly changing  views  of  it,  however,  as  it  curved 
now  this  way  and  now  that,  always  and  ever  tend- 
ing skyward.  The  gray  mists  that  had  enshrouded 
it  in  mystery  now  began  to  break  and  drift  in  filmy 
veils  that  only  half  concealed  the  majesty  of  that 
forest  of  rocky  pinnacles,  opening  and  shutting  en- 
trances to  deep  clefts  in  the  mountain's  colossal 
side,  magnifying  its  grim  sentinel  pillars,  and  in- 
tensifying the  immanent  awfulness  of  the  impending 
mass  of  rocks.  For  now  they  were  directly  over- 
head, and,  what  was  worse,  they  leaned  outward 
now  and  then  as  if  they  might  be  threatening  to 
fall  in  one  prodigious,  world-crushing  avalanche. 

One  or  two  automobiles  buzzed  by  us  as  we 
walked  easily  along,  traveling  up  the  mountain-side 
at  speed,  —  so  the  gentleness  of  its  grades  may  be 
easily  guessed.  Now  and  then  peasants  would  pass 
us  going  down  —  but  not  many,  for  these  know  the 
short,  steep  cuts,  and  scorn  the  circuitous  windings 
of  the  highway.  Occasionally,  also,  we  met  trim 
tartanas  wending  their  way  to  Monistrol.  As  we 
neared  the  upper  portion  of  the  mountain,  where  the 
columns  and  pillars  had  their  bases  in  the  solid 
rock,  we  began  to  see  that  while  the  lower  part  of 
the  mountain  is  seemingly  precipitous,  it  is  not 


4i 8  TRAVELS   IN   SPAIN 

really  so,  but  is  terraced  by  nature  sufficiently  to 
enable  the  clinging  of  much  herbage  and  many 
trees.  Now  and  then  there  were  small  gardens. 
Even  above,  where  the  mountain  began  to  be  very 
sheer  and  awful,  there  were  places  where  trees 
hung  desperately  to  crannies  in  the  titanic  wall,  and 
vines  and  bushes  flourished  wherever  there  was  the 
faintest  chance.  In  the  main,  however,  everything 
was  bare  gray  rock,  —  a  species  of  conglomerate, 
which  formed  the  whole  body  of  the  mountain. 

From  the  very  edge  of  our  road  as  it  wandered 
upward  through  the  upper  ranges  of  the  trees, 
towered  the  pillars  and  columns  that  seemed  to 
support  the  cloudy  firmament.  Some  were  slender, 
others  of  prodigious  girth.  Some  stood  alone  like 
the  solitary  surviving  members  of  an  ancient 
temple.  Others  clustered  in  groups  like  giants  at 
a  conference.  The  mists  had  largely  vanished 
under  the  warm  forenoon  sun,  and  the  detached 
clouds  that  remained  drifted  like  stray  bits  of 
down  through  the  huge  fingers  of  the  mountain. 
At  every  step  the  aspect  of  the  fantastic  skyline 
changed.  We  had  lost  the  railroad  completely,  now, 
—  for  it  lay  below  our  feet  hidden  in  the  slope 
clad  with  dense  poplars.  Now  and  again  we  heard 
faintly  the  puffing  of  an  engine  as  a  train  stole 
cautiously  up  or  down,  and  occasionally  the  echoes 
of  the  rocky  glens  gave  back  the  shrill  reverbera- 
tions of  the  whistle.  But  in  the  main  all  was  still. 
The  road,  which  had  at  last  turned  straight  toward 


MONSERRAT  419 

the  vast  bulk  of  the  mountain,  rounded  the  gigantic 
shoulder  and  began  a  slightly  steeper  ascent  straight 
along  the  face  of  the  cliffs,  the  trees  below,  and  the 
vertical  precipices  of  gray  rock  above.  Habitation 
there  was  none,  save  for  an  isolated  building  here 
and  there  which  gave  evidence  of  being  used  as  an 
inn  during  Monserrat's  congested  season.  At  this 
early  day  all  these  were  closed. 

Viewed  from  this  point  the  mountain  was  mag- 
nificent. Above  our  heads  and  stretching  down  the 
distance  to  the  south  strode  a  battalion  of  rocky 
giants,  captained  by  the  grotesque  Caball  Bernat, 
— a  solitary  pillar  with  head  fantastically  carved, 
which  might  easily  have  done  duty  as  a  colossal 
idol.  To  the  west,  where  the  rocky  wall  turned  the 
corner,  the  mountain  rose  by  sheer  cliffs  to  a  distant 
dome,  —  the  Turo  de  San  Jeronimo.  It  seemed 
perfectly  inaccessible,  and  little  realizing  that  we 
spoke  no  more  than  absolute  truth,  we  jested  over 
scaling  that  distant  eminence  on  the  morrow ;  for 
of  all  the  amazing  array  of  saw-teeth  before  and 
above  us,  this  seemed  easily  the  most  insurmount- 
able. 

The  prospect  below,  while  less  awful,  was  no  less 
grand.  The  valley  of  the  Llobregat  spread  out  in  a 
prodigious  bowl  on  every  side,  save  to  the  far  east- 
ward, where  the  river  forced  a  passage  in  the  moun- 
tain wall  and  glided  in  a  tortuous  but  shining  rib- 
bon to  the  sea.  The  Mediterranean  gleamed  like  a 
sheet  of  silver  far  away.  Behind  and  to  the  north 


420  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

the  drifting  clouds  began  to  reveal  the  tumbling 
masses  of  the  Pyrenees,  indigo  giants  capped  with 
gleaming  ice.  Manresa  showed  like  a  patch  of  gray 
and  tinsel  on  the  distant  verges  of  the  tremendous 
basin  in  the  centre  of  which  we  stood.  The  white 
roads  of  the  country  stretched  their  limitless  miles 
through  the  undulations  of  the  river  bottom.  And 
at  last  we  came  to  the  deep  cleft  that  makes  into 
the  heart  of  the  mountain,  where  the  monastery 
loomed  just  above  us,  and  the  great  stone  cross 
marked  the  halting-place  of  the  sacred  image.  It 
was  duly  inscribed  with  the  statement  that  here 
the  statue  of  the  Virgin  stuck  fast  (se  hizo)  when  the 
shepherds  tried  to  carry  it  down. 

The  railroad  emerged  from  a  tunnel  under  our 
feet,  and  at  the  little  station  just  ahead  stood  the 
train  we  had  abandoned  so  far  below.  Directly 
over  it  the  mountain  reared  its  most  impressive 
fingers  and  thumbs,  gray  against  a  sky  from  which 
the  morning  winds  had  swept  every  cloud.  Just  at 
the  right  the  buildings  of  the  settlement  began  and 
swarmed  up  the  steep  to  the  esplanade  where  stood 
the  immense  church  and  the  monastery  proper. 

Inspired  by  the  guidebook's  advice  to  lose  no 
time  in  registering  for  rooms,  we  sought  the  office, 
but  we  need  have  been  in  no  such  haste.  There 
were,  as  we  subsequently  discovered,  something 
like  five  thousand  rooms  in  the  great  cluster  of  tall 
dormitories  that  lay  all  about,  and  in  Monserrat 
that  day  there  were  not  more  than  twoscore  peo- 


THE   ROAD   NOW  TURNED  TOWARD  THE  MOUNTAIN 


MONSERRAT  421 

pie.  Nevertheless  we  did  register  forthwith,  and 
were  introduced  at  once  to  the  most  delightful 
primitiveness.  A  yokel  in  overalls  shouldered  sheets 
and  pillow-cases  and  led  us  away,  jingling  enormous 
keys,  to  the  apartment  inscribed  with  the  name 
of  Santa  Teresa  de  Jesus,  where  we  clambered 
up  two  flights  of  stone  stairs  to  a  row  of  tiny  cells. 
Two  of  these  the  taciturn  lad  flung  open,  cast  the 
bedclothing  on  the  waiting  mattresses  —  and  dis- 
appeared from  view.  We  sat  down  to  await  develop- 
ments, but  none  came. 

A  pleasant-faced  Englishwoman  —  we  after- 
wards learned  she  was  a  most  determined  suffra- 
gette —  came  to  our  rescue,  enchanted  to  find  op- 
portunity to  be  of  service  and  to  speak  her  native 
tongue.  "You  do  all  your  own  work  here,"  she  ex- 
plained. "You  will  have  to  take  those  things  and 
make  your  own  beds.  The  pitcher  and  the  jug  you 
will  have  to  fill  for  yourselves  at  the  spigot  below. 
You  can  get  a  candle  for  that  candlestick  at  the 
provision  shop  next  the  office.  If  you  must  have  hot 
water,  you  get  it  at  the  restaurant  yonder.  And  if 
I  were  you  I  would  n't  leave  my  key  lying  about, 
or  they  '11  take  it  back  to  the  office.  When  you  go 
away  you  take  the  key  back  to  the  office  and  pay 
what  you  like,  —  or  at  least  that 's  what  they  say. 
But  I  believe  there 's  some  sort  of  tariff,  and  if  you 
don't  pay  quite  enough  they  '11  tell  you  so." 

We  made  our  beds,  filled  the  jug,  and  sought  out 
the  fonda  for  luncheon.  It  was  not  a  very  good 


422  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

fonda,  but  the  only  one  the  place  afforded.  On  the 
first  floor  above  the  ground  there  was  a  meal  being 
served  at  three  pesetas ;  and  if  one  cared  for  some- 
thing grander,  there  was  a  five-peseta  lunch  to  be 
had  on  the  floor  above  that.  Before  we  had  done 
with  Monserrat  we  had  tried  both,  and  felt  but 
little  enthusiasm  for  either. 

The  great  shrine  of  Monserrat  is  set  on  a  shelf 
of  rock  less  than  a  hundred  yards  in  width  just 
against  the  sheer  columns  of  the  summit.  A  dark 
gorge  runs  back  from  it  into  the  mountain,  narrow- 
ing to  a  gloomy  cleft  between  the  cliffs,  and  it  is 
popularly  believed  that  this  rent  was  made  by  a 
convulsion  of  nature  at  the  moment  when  Jesus 
yielded  up  the  ghost.  At  the  present  time  the  tiny 
esplanade,  or  parador,  where  carriages  draw  up  is 
surrounded  by  immense  buildings  devoted  to  no 
other  purpose  than  the  housing  of  guests.  The 
rooms  are  all  alike,  containing  two  beds  in  a  tiny 
alcove  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  cell  by  a  brilliant 
curtain,  and  only  the  barest  necessities  for  other 
furniture.  As  a  result  a  great  army  of  pilgrims  can 
be  sheltered  at  a  given  time ;  but  lest  the  hospitality 
of  the  place  be  abused,  the  "heffy"  of  the  family 
receives  a  notice  that  he  is  expected  to  remain 
no  longer  than  eight  days.  It  is  probable  that  most 
remain  for  much  less,  —  the  excursion  tickets  of 
the  railway  being  limited  to  six.  When  we  were 
there  more  monastic  hotels  were  being  put  up,  for 
the  tendency  to  make  pilgrimages  to  the  shrine 


MONSERRAT  423 

has  no  whit  abated,  and  it  is  now  so  easily  reached 
that  the  multitudes  coming  here  almost  rival  those 
who  clambered  up  in  the  palmy  days  of  Spain.  Not 
that  all  who  come  to-day  are  swayed  by  religious 
awe,  —  for  many  come  quite  as  much  to  be  im- 
pressed by  the  handiwork  of  nature's  God  as  by  the 
Santa  Imagen,  and  some  commentators  have  said 
that  they  found  pious  native  couples  honeymoon- 
ing in  Monserrat. 

The  monastery  proper,  which  is  hardly  more 
than  a  school  of  music  to-day,  we  found  to  consist 
of  tall  buildings  hemming  in  a  narrow  and  very 
cold  courtyard,  save  at  the  end  where  the  facade 
of  the  church  filled  the  entire  space  and  looked 
rather  trim  and  new.  The  latter  we  found  closed 
until  evensong,  and  for  the  present  we  were  forced, 
not  unwillingly,  to  explore  the  outer  precincts  and 
the  nearer  mountain  paths.  The  chief  of  these  lat- 
ter byways  led  down  to  the  depths  of  the  ravine 
and  across  it  to  the  farther  bank,  where  it  branched 
to  a  number  of  isolated  hermitages  and  chapels. 
The  ultimate  one  was  a  tiny  building  set  on  the  site 
where  the  image  was  first  discovered,  and  flattened 
against  the  face  of  the  cliff  to  give  it  a  foothold. 
Higher  up  was  a  jutting  promontory  of  the  moun- 
tain from  whose  outlook  the  view  over  the  valley 
was  superb.  Other  faint  trails  led  to  old  caves  and 
haunts  of  holy  men  —  notably  to  the  hermitage  of 
Garin,  a  pious  Spaniard  who  atoned  for  a  lifetime 
of  sin  and  debauchery  by  an  old  age  of  frightful 


424  TRAVELS   IN  SPAIN 

austerity  here.  All  the  path  was  lined  with  ugly 
statues  sadly  disfiguring  the  noble  mountain,  but 
placed  there  by  pious  hands  to  mark  in  a  colossal 
procession  the  stations  of  the  cross. 

In  the  opposite  direction  from  the  monastery, 
running  along  the  base  of  the  cliffs  to  the  north- 
ward, is  a  path  to  the  "  Dego tails/1  —  a  mossy 
grotto  with  a  spring.  It  is  a  pleasant  path  through 
low  growths  of  box  and  ilex,  and  when  one  has 
reached  its  end  there  is  a  wonderful  view  back  at 
the  Pyrenees  and  the  sunsets  which  Monserrat 
herself  can  never  see.  For  in  Monserrat  the  sun 
sets  early,  —  say  at  about  three  in  the  afternoon. 
The  vertical  heights  above  soon  cast  enormous 
shadows  over  the  huddled  buildings,  and  with  the 
shadows  comes  the  cold.  At  the  Degotalls,  how- 
ever, the  last  rays  linger  late  and  give  one  a  wel- 
come opportunity  to  get  warm  again,  after  the 
dank  chill  of  the  courts  has  penetrated  all  one's 
marrow. 

We  came  back  from  the  grotto  in  season  for  the 
oration.  It  was  not  a  nipping  air,  but  one  depress- 
ingly  clammy  and  cold,  that  permeated  every  nook 
and  corner  of  the  monastery  buildings.  As  in  all 
Spain,  people  went  shrouded  in  great  cloaks, 
coughing  and  snuffling  with  what  we  had  long  ago 
learned  to  call  the  "  Spanish  catarrh. "  To  make 
matters  worse,  the  clouds  returned,  drifting  in  long, 
filmy  streamers  through  the  jagged  tops  of  the  sum- 
mit, then  thickening,  lowering,  and  growing  more 


CABALL  BERNAT,   MONSERRAT 


MONSERRAT  425 

and  more  dense  until  they  were  but  a  few  feet  above 
the  lofty  roofs.  The  church,  when  we  entered  it, 
was  dark  and  the  worshipers  were  but  few.  A 
solitary  sacristan  was  lighting  with  great  difficulty 
the  myriad  tapers  of  the  altar  and  the  Virgin's  ele- 
vated shrine,  but  in  the  great  nave  of  the  church 
there  was  no  light  at  all,  and  we  stumbled  noisily 
over  the  benches  in  the  gloom.  After  an  intermin- 
able wait  a  bell  clanged  in  a  tower  without,  and 
priests  and  boys  came  clattering  through  the  adja- 
cent corridors  for  the  evening  service  of  which  we 
had  heard  so  much. 

It  was  an  interesting  service,  too,  despite  the 
monotony  of  the  singing.  The  sanctuary  adjacent 
to  the  high  altar  was  filled  with  lads  whose  high, 
clear  voices  rendered  the  Ave  Maria  in  a  sustained 
chant  which  had  a  most  indescribable,  elusive 
charm.  But  between  the  insupportable  cold  and  the 
unvarying  recurrence  of  the  chant  we  grew  weary 
of  it  long  before  the  service  was  done  and  sought  the 
outer  air  once  more,  thoroughly  benumbed. 

Outside  the  fog  had  shut  down  in  earnest.  The 
lamps  of  the  village  shone  but  faintly  through  the 
dense  mist,  and  the  way  across  the  long  and  narrow 
square  to  the  fonda  was  an  uncertain  one.  The 
last  train  came  shrieking  through  the  tunnel,  and 
night  shut  down  on  Monserrat.  I  have  never  felt 
more  absolutely  out  of  the  world  than  on  that  iso- 
lated peak,  curtained  in  cloud. 

All  night  the  wind  howled  dismally  through  the 


426  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

draughty  corridors  of  Santa  Teresa  de  Jesus,  and 
down  the  deep  glens  of  the  mountain.  But  it  at 
least  swept  away  the  clouds,  and  when  morning 
broke  it  was  a  perfect  day.  We  found  a  guide  —  a 
red-eyed,  taciturn  fellow  —  whose  cap  announced 
him  to  be  accredited  to  the  San  Jeronimo  route,  and 
started  for  the  summit.  Another  time  I  think  I 
should  go  alone,  once  having  found  the  way;  but 
to  those  unfamiliar  with  the  mountain  it  is  much 
better  to  have  company,  especially  as  there  is  al- 
ways the  chance  that  clouds  will  come  and  envelop 
the  entire  peak  in  a  blinding  fog.  Besides,  the 
trails  are  not  always  clearly  marked,  and  the  road 
to  the  heights  of  Jeronimo  is  a  long  and  devious  one, 
first  skirting  the  southern  shoulder  of  the  mountain 
and  then  returning  to  the  deep  vale  that  leads  up 
through  its  midst.  It  proved,  however,  to  be  any- 
thing but  a  difficult  climb,  inaccessible  as  the  sum- 
mit looked  from  below.  For  the  most  part  it  was  a 
pleasant  woodland  path,  lined  by  fragrant  trees, 
the  earth  under  foot  spangled  with  hepatica  and 
well  clothed  with  green.  I  shall  never  snuff  the 
fragrance  of  box  hedges  again  without  instantly 
recalling  that  ramble  to  the  summit  of  Monserrat 
and  its  mingled  odor  of  ilexes,  myrtles,  and  shrubs. 
Monserrat  is  really  much  like  an  enormous  crown, 
the  periphery  of  which  is  formed  by  the  giant 
spikes,  flutes,  organ-pipes,  pillars,  pinnacles,  and 
standing  giants  that  fancy  has  dubbed  "  guardians 
of  the  Grail."  Inside  their  vast  circle  the  mountain 


MONSERRAT  427 

harbors  a  deep  and  well-wooded  valley  that  slowly 
grows  less  and  less  deep  and  less  and  less  shady 
until  at  last  it  culminates  in  the  rocky  dome  where 
the  old  convent  of  San  Jeronimo  still  has  its  being. 
Up  through  this  vale  we  walked  with  our  guide,  to 
whom  we  slowly  warmed  as  his  taciturnity  thawed 
out  and  his  bleared  eyes  began  to  beam  more  kindly. 
He  carried  our  sweaters,  —  uncommon  courtesy 
on  Monserrat,  —  and  struggled  to  force  his  tongue 
to  speak  in  despised  "  Castilian."  He  waited  oblig- 
ingly when  we  insisted  on  stopping  to  look,  or  rest, 
or  snap  pictures. 

The  path  had  its  ups  and  downs,  and  once  it  ran 
directly  beneath  a  leaning  tower  of  rock  as  huge  as 
Pisa's.  We  hastened  our  steps  here,  for  although 
the  isolated  giant  had  been  patiently  waiting  there 
erect  since  the  Crucifixion,  or  since  creation  even, 
we  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  he  might 
grow  weary  like  the  saints  in  the  doors  of  Sala- 
manca cathedral  and  abandon  his  post  with  disas- 
trous results  to  those  beneath.  And  finally,  after  a 
sharp  scramble  up  the  last  ascent,  we  came  to  San 
Jeronimo,  and  had  the  world  at  our  feet.  The  actual 
summit  overlay  the  little  building  of  the  monastery, 
but  it  was  a  simple  matter  to  climb  to  it  over  an 
improvised  zigzag  path,  —  the  old  injunction  as  to 
"  caution  "  now  being  quite  needless. 

From  the  little  house  erected  at  the  very  top  it 
was  seen  that  all  the  rocky  columns  were  now  below 
us.  This  was  the  loftiest  of  all.  The  valley  lay  open 


428  TRAVELS  IN  SPAIN 

in  its  great  bowl  all  about  us.  The  Pyrenees, 
stripped  of  every  cloud  for  the  first  time  in  many 
days,  rolled  in  a  majestic  line  across  the  whole  north. 
The  drop  from  our  feet  to  the  valley  of  Monistrol 
was  thoroughly  and  unqualifiedly  stupendous. 
The  railway  was  a  hair-line  of  rust.  The  buildings 
were  far  less  than  Lilliputian.  By  a  merciful  good 
fortune  an  iron  railing  lay  across  the  edge  of  the 
gulf,  or  I  am  certain  that  nothing  could  have  re- 
strained me  from  casting  myself  down  headlong 
into  that  awful  abyss  that  yawned  from  our  very 
feet ! 

They  served  us  a  huge  tortilla  for  lunch  and 
some  wine  that  was  neither  red  nor  white,  but 
rather  a  faint  pink,  —  in  spite  of  which  it  was 
highly  invigorating.  The  red-eyed  guide  ate  with 
us  at  the  same  table,  quite  as  one  of  the  family.  On 
this  point  there  had  been  some  debate,  which  was 
finally  decided  by  a  citation  from  Hare  which  re- 
lated how  an  Englishman  who  denied  his  guide  that 
privilege  was  either  abandoned  on  the  mountain 
or  pushed  off  a  precipice  —  I  have  forgotten  which 
—  in  the  guide's  indignation.  We  decided  not  to 
invoke  any  such  wrath,  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
precipices  seemed  to  be  distressingly  common  in 
that  vicinity  and  the  visage  of  the  courier  was  one 
that  sorted  well  with  deeds  of  violence.  He  sat 
gravely  by  my  side,  and  demanded  his  dole  of  bread 
and  meat,  as  well  as  his  fourth  of  the  vast  tortilla. 
But  of  the  wine  he  would  have  none. 


MONSERRAT  429 

From  the  funicular  late  that  afternoon  we  had 
our  last  glimpse  of  the  pavilion  that  crowns  the 
height  of  San  Jeronimo.  It  was  but  a  tiny  speck 
directly  above  our  heads  as  we  steamed  into  the 
station  of  Monistrol  Villa,  and  that  we  had  stood 
there  not  three  hours  before  seemed  incredible. 
None  of  us  spoke  a  word,  but  leaned  from  the 
windows,  gazing  back  on  that  enormous  granite 
pile  towering  into  the  sky,  awed  and  exalted  by  its 
majesty.  We  could  see  it  in  all  its  grandeur  as  we 
journeyed  back  down  the  long  valley  to  Barcelona, 
its  mighty  spires  purple  against  the  departing  glory 
of  the  evening  gold.  Its  mystic  presence  attended 
us  almost  to  the  gates  of  the  city,  and  as  the  train 
rushed  on  it  lost  its  semblance  of  a  mountain  and 
became  a  huge  cathedral,  roofed,  like  Milan's,  with 
a  forest  of  statuettes  and  Gothic  pinnacles,  whose 
myriad  shapes  showed  airily  against  the  paling 
west.  And  with  this  parting  glimpse  of  the  Grail 
mountain  for  a  benediction,  we  bade  a  sad  farewell 
to  Spain. 


INDEX 


ABENCERRAGES,  101,  106. 

Alcazar,  of  Seville,  136. 

Alfonso  the  Wise,  277. 

Alfonso  XIII,  195. 

Algeciras,  52  et  seq. 

Alhambra,  94-120;  situation  of, 
81-82 ;  meaning  of,  96. 

Andalusia,  19,  21. 

Aqueducts,  of  Segovia,  266;  of 
Tarragona,  387. 

Armory,  Royal,  at  Madrid,  193. 

Auto-de-fe,  22. 

Avila,  286-314;  cathedral  of,  293 
et  seq. ;  San  Pedro,  297 ;  San 
Tomas,  298;  tomb  of  Prince 
Juan,  298;  San  Segundo,  302, 
305;  walls  of,  302  etseq.;  San 
Vicente,  306. 

Arulejos,  104. 

Baltasar  Carlos,  Prince,  185,  186, 

249. 

Barbers'  signs,  89. 
Barcelona,  399-409;   Ramblas  of, 

401-403;  cathedral  of,  406-409. 
Basques,  30. 
Beggars,  5,  6,  52,  232. 
Boabdil,  104,  no. 
Bobadilla,  73-77, 121. 
Brasero,  u,  24. 
Bullfights,  196-209. 
Burgos,    342-367 ;     cathedral  of, 

348  et  seq. ;  Las  Huelgas,  355 ; 

Miraflores,  360;  Casa  Miranda, 

362. 


Caloriferos,  285,  309. 

Caridad,  Hospital  of,  Seville,  141. 

Carmelite  nuns,  290  et  seq. 

Casa  de  Conchas,  320-321. 

Catalan,  character,  21,  24 ;  type  of 
church,  383-384 ;  language  and 
literature,  405. 

Cathedrals,  peculiar  internal  ar- 
rangement of,  86-87,  250;  at 
Ronda,  66;  Granada,  86;  Se- 
ville, 125 ;  Cordova,  157 ;  Toledo, 
225;  Segovia,  273;  Avila,  293; 
Salamanca,  322  ;  Burgos,  348 ; 
Leon,  353  ;  Saragossa,  372,  376; 
Tarragona,  383 ;  Barcelona,  406. 

Catholicism,  9,  22. 

Cemeteries,  296. 

Charles  V,  82,  107,  137,  162,  176, 
189,  190,  193;  palace  0^97-98; 
tomb  of,  245,  248. 

Cid,  the,  222,  324,  357-359- 

Climate,  17. 

Coinage,  7-8. 

Columbus,  142,  337,  400 ;  tomb  of, 

132. 

Cordova,  151-175;  derivation  of 
name,  151 ;  cathedral  of,  157  et 
seq.;  court  of  oranges,  158; 
mosque  of,  161-163;  bridge  at, 
164;  excursions  from,  160^172. 

Cork  trees,  56. 

Court  of  the  Lions,  105-106. 

Court  of  Myrtles,  101-103. 

Court  of  Oranges,  at  Seville,  125; 
at  Cordova,  158. 


432  INDEX 

Cristo  de  la  Luz,  221. 


Diligences,  10,  308. 
Drunkenness,  77. 

Easter  monuments,  133,  300. 

Ebro,  river,  369. 

Escorial,  El,  239-259 ;  pantheon  of 
the  kings,  245  et  seq.  ;  royal  pal- 
ace of  the  Philips,  254 ;  library, 
256. 

Escutcheons  in  architecture,  312. 

Espluga,  388,  390. 

Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  88,  in, 

298,  312. 

Food,  11-12,  334. 
Funerals,  296. 

Generalife,  112  et  seq. 

Giralda,  124,  125,  135. 

Goya,  191,  254. 

Granada,   72-93;   journey  to,  72; 

vega  of,   79;   situation   of,   80; 

cathedral    of,    86 ;     excursions 

from,  90,  114. 
Greco,  191,  256. 
Guadalquivir,  river,  124,  142,  147- 

150. 

Gum-cistus,  57. 
Gypsies,  91  et  seq, 

Holy   Week,    131,    133-134,  333~ 

334,  35  *>  363- 
Horseshoe  arches,  106. 
Howell,  James,  62,  164,  412. 
Huelga.5)  Las,  monastery  of,  355. 

Ildefonso,  Bishop,  226. 
Inquisition,  3,  302. 


Irish  college,  Salamanca,  329. 
Isabella  the  Catholic,  88,  in,  233, 

278,  298,  302,  312,  361. 
Isabella  of  Portugal,  137,  192. 

Juan  and  Isabella,  tomb  of,  361. 
Juan,  Prince,  tomb  of,  298,  361. 

Kilometric  tickets,  16. 

La  Granja,  257,  282. 
Las  Meninas,  187. 
Leon,  345,  353,  355. 
Loyola,  Ignatius,  411,  413. 

Madrid,  176-209;  situation  of,  178; 

gallery  of  the  Prado,  180,  182- 

192;  royal  armory,  193. 
Maria  de  Padilla,  138. 
Medina  del  Campo,  315. 
Meninas,  Las,  187. 
Mezquita,  in  Alhambra,  no. 
Miraflores,  360. 
Miranda  de  Ebro,  367,  369. 
Monserrat,  25,  410-429. 
Moorish  gardening,  112,  139. 
Moors,  19,  20,  24,  29-30,  65,  69, 

214,  217,  265. 
Mozarabic  chapel,  228. 
Mozarabic  rites,  229,  325. 
Murillo,  130,  139-142,  183. 

Pagan  customs,  survival  of,  134, 

306. 

Pantheon  of  the  kings,  245  et  seq. 
Peter  the  Cruel,  137-138. 
Peter  Martyr,  299,  328. 
Philip  II,  176,  177,  238,  239,  246, 

254,  329- 
Philip  IV,  183,  185,  186,  246. 


INDEX 


433 


Poblet,  388-398. 

Pilate,  house  of,  145. 

Prado,  180,  182-192. 

Processions  of  Good  Friday,  363- 

365. 
Puerta  del  Sol,  at  Madrid,  182 ;  at 

Toledo,  223. 
Pyrenees,  370,  428. 

Railroads,    12-16,    55-56,    73-76, 

262,  283,  332,  342-343- 
Railroad  restaurants,  74,  369,  379. 
Reus,  379-38  *• 
Ribera,  191,  256,  339. 
Ronda,    52-7 1 ;     bridge    of,    63 ; 

cathedral  of,  66. 

Salamanca,  315-341 ;  Casa  de  Con- 
chas, 320;  cathedral  of,  322-324 ; 
old  cathedral  of,  324-326;  uni- 
versity of,  326  et  seq.  ;  college  of 
the  Noble  Irish,  329 ;  bridge  of, 

335- 

San  Juan  de  los  Reyes,  233. 

San  Lorenzo,  250  et  seq. 

San  Segundo  of  Avila,  302,  305. 

San  Tomas  in  Avila,  298. 

San  Vicente,  306. 

Santa  Teresa,  287-290. 

Saragossa,  368-381 ;  cathedrals  of, 
Del  Pilar,  372-376,  La  Seo,  376- 
377;  Virgin  of  the  Pillar,  372, 

374-375- 

Sculpture  in  wood,  131,  362. 

Seat  of  the  Moor,  in,  113,  115. 

Segovia,  260-285;  situation  of, 
264,  280;  aqueduct,  265;  Ro- 
manesque churches  of,  271 ;  Al- 
cazar of,  277;  the  "Segovian 
ahip,"  280. 


Sereno,  167,  261. 

Seville,  121-150 ;  cathedral  of,  125- 
132;  Alcdzar  of,  136;  hospital 
of  the  Caridad,  141;  Torre  del 
Ore,  142;  patron  saints,  134, 
144;  streets  of,  144;  house  of 
Pilate,  145;  excursions  from, 
147, 150. 

Snake-charmer,  38. 

Soko,  36-40. 

Spain,  traveling  in,  3-26;  seasons, 
17;  character  of,  17,  21;  en- 
trances to,  19,  53-54;  economic 
prospects  of,  22  et  seq. ;  simi- 
larities to  Greece,  26. 

Spanish  architecture,  20,  21 ;  char- 
acter, 4-6,  9,  22;  climate,  17; 
coinage,  7-8;  language,  6-7; 
painting,  21 ;  race,  29-30. 

Street  names,  1 56. 

Tangier,  27-51. 

Tarragona,  382-398 ;  cathedral  of, 
383  ctseq,  ;  aqueduct  of,  387. 

Titian,  189,  190,  192. 

Toledo,  210-238;  situation,  213; 
cathedral,  217,  2.2$etseq.;  Moz- 
arabic  chapel,  228 ;  San  Juan 
de  los  Reyes,  233;  bridges,  214, 

235. 

Tombs,  at  Granada,  88 ;  of  Colum- 
bus, 132;  of  Charles  V  and  the 
Philips,  ?4j  -240;  of  Bauasar 
Cai^os,  249;  of  Prince  Juan, 
298;  of  King  Juan  and  Queen 
Isabella  of  Portugal,  361 ;  of 
Prince  Alon/o,  362. 

Torquemada,  301. 

Torre  del  Oro,  142. 

Triana,  143. 


434 


INDEX 


University  of  Salamanca,  326  et 
seq. 

Valladolid,  344-345- 


Velasquez,    140,    141,     182,    185- 

190. 
Virgin,  of  Monserrat,  413  et  seq.  ; 

of  the  Pillar,  372,  374. 


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